


Ne Me Quitte Pas

by casbean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Antiquity!Au, Back From Hiatus, Bottom!Cas, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, NSFW, Smut, Soldier!Dean, bottom!Dean, prostitute!Cas, slurs cw, team switch, the ending is just a lil bit open if you chose to see it that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3182234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casbean/pseuds/casbean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I will offer you<br/>Pearls of raindrops<br/>From countries where<br/>The rain never falls</p><p>I will dig the earth<br/>Long after my death<br/>To cover your body<br/>Of gold and lights</p><p>I will make you a land<br/>Where love is king<br/>Where love is law<br/>And you will be queen."</p><p>("Moi je t'offrirai<br/>Des perles de pluie<br/>Venues de pays<br/>Où il ne pleut pas</p><p>Je creuserai la terre<br/>Jusqu'après ma mort<br/>Pour couvrir ton corps<br/>D'or et de lumière </p><p>Je ferai un domaine<br/>Où l'amour sera roi<br/>Où l'amour sera loi<br/>Et tu seras reine.")</p><p>-Jacques Brel</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On a vu souvent, rejaillir le feu

**Author's Note:**

> Not trying to be historically accurate. I won't name the city or the country or the time period, but I imagined it a bit like I imagine Rome at the time of the Roman Empire. "Exoletus" was one of the name used for male prostitutes in Ancient Rome.
> 
> -
> 
> So, I am now back from a one year hiatus on this story. I wrote it when I was in a place in my life when I needed to work on my own triggers about rape and prostitution and violence, and now that I'm re-reading it I'm a bit taken aback by how violent and intense and kind of unhealthy this story is, but I also want to finish it and do it the way it was originally written (and it is still a story very close to my heart) so here I go. Hopefully this time I finish it. 
> 
> TRIGGERS/SPOILERS:
> 
> There's rape in this story. It happens to Cas. It NEVER happens between Dean and Cas. Dean is not a rapist. 
> 
> There is violence in this story. Dean is violent towards the people who rape Cas, in a sort of... revenge way... They don't get away with it. They suffer a lot.
> 
> (Writing was my way of working through my triggers, as I previously said.)
> 
> I WILL WARN YOU IN THE NOTE BEFORE EVERY CHAPTER WITH RAPE/VIOLENCE. 
> 
> (Although almost every chapter contains reference/mention or graphic depiction of prostitution.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One (chapters 1-8) is inspired by the song Ne Me Quitte Pas, by Jacques Brel

 Their first time is not different than with all the other clients. They exchange the money in the darkness of Castiel's tiny room, Cas turns around and lifts his tunic to the sound of a belt unbuckling. Then two strong hands grab on to his hips and a familiar pressure pushes inside of him.

 Cas keeps himself well oiled at all times - it's a thing you learn quite quickly in this line of work - and since he's already lose from the other clients of the night, it's not painful. The sex act can even be relatively pleasurable, although that also fades away after twenty or thirty times. It’s still not too bad, and at least this guy is not heavy, dirty and smelling of cheap wine like most of Cas’ clients, and he doesn't try to hit him or even slap him like some of them do.

 From what Cas has been able to catch in the moonlight ray, the stranger is rather beautiful. Built tall and broad, pale eyes glowing above a defined jaw, he can't be over thirty-five years old. The sex is done quickly and neatly, and the man doesn't linger after he's done spilling in Castiel's ass. He buckles his pants and leaves without a look back.

 Cas wasn't really expecting to see him again, nor did he think about him much - he sees a lot of men every night and it's not like this one was peculiar, apart maybe from his clean appearance - and he’s quite surprised to receive him again a few days later. Most men like him don't come to the same _exoletus_ more than once, just in case they'd get recognized. They're often married or come from important families not approving of their interest for the male form. Despite sex between two men being legal, some higher class citizen still frown upon it. Most civilians therefore need to come to the dirtiest, poorest parts of the city to get what they want, and there’s plenty enough boys down here for them to never have to see the same one twice. But this guy seems to have liked Castiel for some reason, and Cas isn’t going to complain. He’s an easy one.

 The second time goes almost like the first, except that this time the man cradles behind Cas closer, pressing him almost delicately against the wall, hands sliding up his naked waist and on his stomach, like to caress him. He pushes his chest against Castiel's back as he's fucking him, panting directly into his ear and even biting on his neck. The man's growls are husky and strangely arousing, and he leaves Cas with an aftertaste of curiosity about who he is and where he comes from.

 The third time he fucks Cas directly on the cabinet, the only furniture in the room apart from the worn out mattress laying on the floor. The stranger grabs Castiel by the thighs and lifts him like he weighs nothing, pressing their cheeks together as he sits him on the rough wood. Cas has to hold on to the large shoulders as his client makes his way inside of him, his pounding regular and decided. He smells good, strong and spicy with a hint of something sweeter. The proximity is different when they're facing each other and Cas could count on his fingers the number of customers who choose this position.

 "Name's Dean," the guy lets out just before leaving, barely a minute after coming between Castiel's legs.

 While he's cleaning up for the next client, Cas finds his thoughts wandering on those bright green eyes and the strangely delicate features of Dean’s face. There's a certain purity about him that excites Cas’ curiosity. His clear skin, the pattern of freckles scattered on his cheeks, not to mention the striking pink of his lips and the soft fabric of his clothes, indicating he’s probably from a wealthy family...  _Dean_.

 The fourth time the stranger - Dean – takes off all of Cas' clothes before gently lifting him and pressing him against the wall. They're facing each other again, and this time Dean doesn't turn his face away and doesn't let Cas do so either. It feels a bit strange to be looking directly into the warm grass eyes, meanwhile being fucked roughly against the stone wall. Usually Cas wouldn’t even dare exchange a glance with someone of a rank as high as Dean. But sex has a way of bringing all humans down to the same level, and soon they're panting into each other's mouths, bodies moving together in a tight embrace, and almost kissing. 

 Kissing is a very uncommon concept for Cas. He's had a few clients twist his neck and shove their tongues down his throat, but it's never been anything like what he sees sometimes in the public places, when he goes to the market or to the baths. He sees people putting their mouths together, pressing their lips in a way that seems to express affection, something Castiel never experienced.

 Cas never knew his parents, and his very first memories are from the estate he used to be a servant in, owned by a very rich and powerful family. They never showed him any kind of affection and simply reminded him of the honour it was for someone like  _him_  to be serving people like  _them_. A very stupid attempt at liberty in his early teens got Castiel kicked down to the very bottom of the human food chain, covered in bruises that would never really go away. A few years of begging and starving on the street and Cas gave in to the only option left, selling his body to drunk soldiers on leave, closeted rich men and aged nobodies who needed someone to pound. He doesn't know how old he was when he started, but probably too young, although it's not like he was alone on that road.

 Castiel's never been loved, never been kissed, but has been fucked in every way imaginable, a lot of which he actively tries to forget. He has known since a very early age that human lives are not all worth the same, that some get that thing called _happiness_ and some don’t. He also knows that everyone has their place in the human society, and his is at the very bottom, with the dogs, the drunks and the perverted. 

 The acceptance of his own pitiful destiny somehow makes it easier for Cas to live it. He's used to being used and he's stronger now, not as vulnerable as he was in his young years - or as he'll be when he gets older and loses his strength. Most of the time he can defend himself against unwanted attention. Though fucks still happen from time to time, but that's just a part of his livelihood, and if he doesn't always eat as much as he wishes, at least most of the time he doesn't starve.

 Cas’ life still seems very far from those of the people he sees when he leaves his filthy neighbourhood. But it’s okay, they're not of the same kind. They’re users, and he’s used. The good thing is that Cas is numb to almost everything now; pain, humiliation, degradation, and certainly anything positive like attachment or that thing they talk about in the great stories, _love_. He has a cat, Samandriel, for which he cares in a way, and that’s it for Cas’ emotional life.

 But this new client, _Dean_ , wakes an interest inside of Cas that he thought had died a long time ago. The same type of curiosity that pushed him to spy on his owners' lessons and learn to read when he was five, the same thirst that urged him to enter the master's library at night and read everything he could get his eyes on - which got him numerous painful corrections. But that flame burned away quickly once Cas was in the streets, and he's surprised to feel it again in his chest as he's walking down the dirty alleys in the sunset, about to start another night of work and wondering if the next time he comes – if he does – Dean will actually kiss him.


	2. D'un ancien volcan, qu'on croyait trop vieux

 It happens that very night. Castiel arrives to his room - basically just a hole in the wall, an alcove among others - and Dean’s waiting for him, wrapped in the shadow of his cape.

 This time Dean takes off his own clothes first and then Castiel's, before guiding him toward the bed. Cas has time to notice numerous scars and tattoos on the tanned skin before Dean gently pushes him down to lay on top of him. His eyes don’t leave Castiel's face as he lets his weight rest on him, and the closeness of their position makes the prostitute shiver. He can't remember the last time he's been naked and pressed against another person like that, and he feels a strange pain tightening in his chest, like when he was really young and sad. It's so warm though, so agreeable, and Cas' skin warms up quickly against Dean's burning one. The man has an amazing gaze, clear, pure and  _good_ , and he slides his hands on each side of Castiel's face before carefully pressing their mouths together. 

 Every last bit of air empties from Cas' lungs as Dean kisses him. For the first time in his life the person on top of him is not trying to invade him, to force anything. It's a gentle and honest touch, like Dean is really trying to taste him, tongue brushing on his lips, searching for a response, eager to meet him and connect with him. Dean kisses the same way Cas eats, like it's something precious he must take his time to taste. And as he opens his mouth to respond Cas can feel his own need growing, and he wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders to bring him even closer. He doesn't really understand what's happening between them, but for the first time in his life Castiel _wants_  someone from the depth of his guts.

 Even if it’s not well seen by society for a male to enjoy being penetrated, Cas learned early how to get a certain pleasure from his job. After all, what society thinks doesn’t exactly matter at the level Cas has reached, and at some point he needs be aroused or get release during work to make it bearable. On good nights Cas can orgasm at least once through all of his clients, but in a way it always feels like an automatic response of his body and the pleasure remains very superficial.

 This is different. Tonight Castiel’s body is actually _aching_ , starving for contact, gasping for breath and for something more. Very soon he’s kissing Dean back desperately, sliding his palms on the firm back and enjoying how soft and warm the other man is against him. A moan escapes him when Dean slides a hand between his asscheeks and starts caressing him, kissing down his neck as he opens him up. It's like he cares about how the sex will feel to Cas, something very few customers think about. Since men are not generally supposed to enjoy being on the receiving end, someone showing care for how a prostitute feels during sex is a very rare thing. That’s when Cas starts to really understand how special Dean is.

 That fifth time is very important. The pleasure that Cas feels as Dean penetrates him, his warm body keeping him in a safe embrace, is nothing he's ever felt before. The prostitute can't help but wrap his legs around Dean's waist and join in his movements, and he gasps and pants as Dean bites on his lips and mumbles inaudible things in his ears.

 The hot weight of Dean's stomach sliding on Cas’ cock creates sensations he had forgotten could exist. It's maddening, it’s amazing, and Cas forgets about reality for an moment, taken away in Dean's passionate embrace. He forgets who he is, what he is, forgets the smelly room that is all he’ll ever know, forgets that he’s a poor little whore living in a life of Hell. Suddenly all that matters is the warm, sweaty body wrapped around him, the spicy smell surrounding him, Dean's sounds and his pants and his touch, and how he feels pressed so tight inside of him.

 Sooner than he expects Cas comes messy between their stomach, and for some reason it brings Dean to orgasm too. With a loud growl he bites on Castiel's lips, his hips giving their last erratic thrusts. 

 And then it's all over, and then they're laying next to each other, pearls of sweat dripping down on Cas' grubby mattress. The room is completely silent except for the sound of their heavy and regular breathing. Cas feels like he's waking up from a trance, and he can't do much more than sit up as Dean gets on his feet and puts his clothes back on. He’s gone a few minutes later, but not before turning around at the door and looking at Cas for a minute, before letting out a "I'll see you next time, Cas," that sounds almost like a promise.

 

 Dean starts coming around two or even three times a week. He always wears a cape with a hood that shields him from unwelcome curiosity, and always hands in more money than what Cas asks for. He comes by early, when most of the boys are still patiently waiting for their first client, and he seems to stay with Cas longer every time. Mostly he just lays in bed next to him silence, after they’re done doing whatever it is they do.

 At first Dean would ask if Cas is waiting for someone, if it'd be a bother if he stayed with him a little while longer, but now he just hangs until another client manifests himself. They don't exchange a lot of words in those moments, but Cas still feels like they share something. They share a instant, they share an emotion, maybe the dizziness of the after-orgasm or the calm of the falling night.

 Dean often brings food and shares it with Cas, who usually refuses charity, but when it's Dean who offers it feels different. Castiel tries to not make it too obvious how hungry he is or how good the fancy pastries taste, but he can catch Dean smiling every time he brings something new. Dean even seems to stay on top of Cas longer every time, caressing his cheeks and breathing against his lips, and when he rolls off he tends to leave an arm behind, often just a hand gently stroking Cas’ thigh.

 And sometimes Dean just stares at Castiel, stares at his eyes and his lips and his body, pear coloured gaze diving inside of him for what seems like hours. Cas doesn’t say anything, although he really wonders what Dean can be looking at.


	3. Je te raconterai, l'histoire de ce roi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE/NON-CON  
> TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTATIONS OF VIOLENCE
> 
> Okay, I'm really sorry, but when I posted the first chapters I thought the warnings and the tags could be different for each chapter. I only tagged implied/referenced rape/non con because that's what it was for the first chapters, but now I've changed it, I hope I won't end up hurting anyone.
> 
> There is a rape scene and violence in this chapter, although it's only in the beginning, and it's quite a long chapter. 
> 
> SPOILERS:  
> The rape does NOT happen between Dean and Cas. 
> 
> For those who prefer to know beforehand: It ends well, and the rapist is punished, and loads of fluff and comfort follow.

 Cas was expecting Dean that evening, but he doesn't show. Instead comes one of the clients Castiel hates the most, because he knows that when this one turns up it’s gonna be a rough night. Cas is far from the vulnerable young boy he was when he first started, and usually his relatively muscled stature allows him to refuse any customer he doesn’t want. But some of them are just too big, too strong, and often too drunk to be fought back, and trying always results in Cas laying in a pool of his own blood.

 Tonight Zacharia is insisting even more than usual, his breath stinking of cheap wine, and the way his hand hits Castiel's face before even saying _hi_ tells him he better not try anything. A minute later the prostitute is thrown on his knees, blood dripping down his face where it hit the cement wall. A hard kick to his guts forced Cas on his stomach, Zacharia's heavy weight crushing his legs and his moist, rot smelling hand covering his mouth. Despite this place being a miserable whore house, there’s usually at least one guard that the boys can call if clients try to abuse their power. But Zacharia knows how to avoid that kind of trouble, and tips the guards beforehand.

 Cas can barely breathe, barely move, his neck and arms painfully twisted to keep him in place, but he doesn’t fight back. He's used to it, he's used to _this_ and he learned long ago how to loosen his body enough for the pain to be manageable. All he can do is brace himself and wait for it to pass, make his body accept it. Accept the disgusting man forcing himself on him, hurting him like he’s been hurt so many times before.

 But Zacharia doesn’t like it loose and easy, he likes it tight and rough, so he grabs Cas and rolls him on his back, hitting his face and sending his skull crashing to the ground. Cas vainly attempts to get up, to use his legs but the man kicks his knees, silencing him with more threats. Cas chokes on the hand keeping him from screaming as he receives one, two, trees punches in the stomach, and he can’t help a cry of pain when fingers pull in his hair and twist until it hurts.

 “You loose little whore,” the furred voice spits above him. A rough slap meets Castiel’s cheek again, burning like a stove. “You better tighten your precious hole if you want to keep your teeth.”

Zacharia forces Cas back on his stomach, gripping his hair and pushing the prostitute's face against the dirt ground. Cas can't do anything, besides trying not to breath in too much dirt, and he prays for it to go fast, to end, as everything does. He makes his body tighter, obeys to the man above him, biting his lips to the blood to bear the pain.

 Through his blurred vision Cas sees Zacharia’s fist hanging in the air, reaching for a new correction. But instead of a punch it’s the roar of a beast that resonates in the room, quickly followed the sound of a sword pulled from its sheath.

 Violent hands wrap around Zacharia’s neck and Cas is finally able to breathe, letting out a whimper of relief as the weight and the pressure is dragged off him. He crawls away as fast as he can, heart about to break out of his chest, and only stops when his back hits the mattress. Cas can still hear the scream ringing in his ears, full of a rage and a pain that could tear down worlds. Something is dripping down his cheeks but he doesn’t know if it’s blood, sweat or tears, and he quickly wipes it away before finally looking up.

 Dean is standing there, in his room, holding Zacharia by the collar and throwing his fist at the old man's face, over, and over, and over. He doesn’t even blink as blood spatters around them, completely indifferent to the sound of Zacharia's bones breaking and of his cries of pain.  

 Cas has never seen this expression on Dean’s face, or on anyone’s face for that matter. It’s an expression of pure, devastating rage; it’s cold, animalistic anger, wild and untamed. It’s the scariest thing that Cas has ever witnessed. 

 Dean shoves Zacharia on his stomach and leans over him, one foot flat on his back, twisting the fat arms until Zacharia begs for release. The sword that hangs from Dean’s fist is so sharp it’s glimmering in the faith light, and without even blinking he slides it on Zacharia’s skin, leaving behind scarlet trails that drip down to the floor.

 “You never come here again, you old _rat_ , you hear me?”

 Dean’s growl is so deep and hoarse that it reminds Castiel of the tigers at the circus, just before they tear someone apart.

 “You _never_ put those filthy hands on him again..." With each new word comes a new cut, blade plunging deep into the flesh. "And if I ever, _ever_ see your disgusting face again…”

 Dean brings his sword up to Zacharia’s neck, pushing suggestively at the pulse of his jugular.

 “And just so you don’t forget about me…”

Dean steps backs, yanking off the old man's tunic completely, and without a cringe he carves two big X’s directly into the pink flesh of Zacharia’s ass. The old man spits blood and teeth, begging for release.

 The placid look of satisfaction on Dean’s face as he watches Zacharia crawl out of the room, and then as he swipes the blood from his blade, is terrifying. Cas barely moves during the whole scene, curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed, completely petrified. A big part of him is convinced that Dean is too far gone, taken by some mysterious demon, and about to slice him up too.

 But when Dean looks back at Cas all the anger, all the violence melt away from his eyes. It’s like a sink draining from all its water, the darkness is replaced by light, and the change is shocking. The green eyes are soft and concerned as Dean walks up to Cas, and the prostitute tries to get up with the very little dignity he has left.

 “You okay?” Dean murmurs. The worrying piercing through his words is like a punch to Castiel’s guts.

 “Yes, I'm - I'm fine,” Cas says, trying to regain some composure. “Thank you, but it's not... not a big deal. It happens quite often in this… business. Not the chivalrous saving, of course, but the rest. I’m used to it.”

 A shadow passes on Dean’s face, his features hardening as Cas speaks. Apparently he doesn’t like being reminded that the prostitute he pays to screw is _a prostitute_. Cas readjusts his tunic and looks away, half hoping that the other man will leave. But Dean is still standing there in his blood damped clothes, looking like some kind of macabre ghost.

 “All right, well, no more clients for you tonight,” he declares, and he walks up to the door frame, making sure the curtains are closed. “And don’t you have a real door?”

“No. And I can’t afford not working, I need the money. I’m okay, really,” Cas reaffirms.

 He is. He’s known a lot worse, although it’s the first time he sees someone carve directly into another human without a glitch.

 “How many clients d’you usually have a night?”

 “It depends. Ten, fifteen, twenty, it changes every night. Why? I told you, I’m fine.”

 Cas tries to ignore the slight look of disgust on Dean’s face. What did he expect anyway? Castiel to be some kind of virginal whore?

 “Well, I’m buying the whole night, then.” Dean takes a huge pile of gold from his bag and places it on the cabinet.

 “Dean, don’t-”

 “No one’s fucking you tonight, Cas, end of discussion." His tone suffers no contradiction, but then it suddenly softens. "No one’s - No one’s hurting you again. Not on my watch.”

 Dean’s eyes are full of something, something Castiel doesn’t really understand, but he doesn't protest. And then Dean proceeds to walk up to him and brush his thumbs on Cas’ face, swiping the blood away with a delicacy one wouldn't expect.

 “He really got you bad.”

 Dean’s voice is all soft as his eyes trail the bloody bruises around Cas’ eyes and cheeks. The exoletus turns away, avoiding the inquiring look. He feels strangely small, delicate next to Dean, even if he’s six foot tall and not exactly thin himself. Dean steps even closer and gently presses his mouth on Cas’ wounds, soothing and cleaning them with his tongue, and Cas can’t help his body from shaking under the sweet touch.

 And then Dean kisses Cas on the lips, very slowly, as if afraid to hurt him. It’s strange to feel so much tenderness from someone Cas just saw beat and slice up another human, but somehow it makes it seem a lot more sincere. Cas grabs on to Dean as he starts pulling back, bringing him closer again, begging for the kiss last a little longer. Dean’s hands rest of Castiel’s waist and he smiles, leaning their foreheads together. Cas realizes he isn’t shaking anymore.

 The break apart and Dean starts taking off his bloody clothes as Cas sits on the bed, cringing. Being used to it doesn’t change the fact that the got battered hard, and his ass hurts. A lot. He looks over at Dean, who struggles with a long red cloth, almost tripping over when it gets hooked in his fancy sandals. He doesn't seem very used to the rich clothes he’s wearing.

 The guy is definitely a mystery, especially with those multiple scars all over his body that Cas sees very clearly now. He’s obviously rich, but not that comfortable with what comes with it, and has a darkness and a violence kept inside that don’t fit with the idea Cas had of him, or of boys like him. Usually they're rich and spoiled heirs who’ve never faced anything scarier than their even more spoiled sister.

 “That was not the first time you sliced into someone, was it?” Castiel finally dares to ask when Dean slides in the bed next to him.

 Dean’s mouth twitches as he turns toward him. They’re sitting close because the bed is small, and Cas can feel the incredible warmth radiating from his companion. Dean crosses his legs.

 “That obvious, uh?”

 Darkness creeps into Dean’s eyes again and he looks down on his hands.

 “War?”

 “Yeah. Fifteen years. Infantry.”

 Dean’s features harden even more. The scars and tattoos explain themselves now.

 “How was it?”

Cas doesn’t know why he asks. Everyone knows what war is like. Most men like it, actually. Are proud of it. Blood, killing, domination, power, _sex_. What’s not to like? Dean smirks, but the wrinkles around his eyes are bitter, his jaw tightened, and he avoids Cas’ gaze.

 “It’s… horrible. Thrilling. Awful. Energizing. Disgusting.” Dean pauses. The mix of emotions passing on his face is fascinating, although it ends on something frightening as he speaks again, his voice breaking down. “The things… the things you do, Cas. The things you see. The things you _enjoy_. It’s…”

 The smirk turns into scowl. Cas feels bad, really bad for him, but at the same time his heart feels a little lighter. It shows on his face.

 “What?” Dean frowns. “You thought I was some kind of righteous saint or something? Some rich spoiled virgin?”

 Cas makes an effort not to look so pleased.

 “Something like that, I must confess. You feel so… pure. Especially compared to me.”

 Dean scoffs and shakes his head.

 “Believe me, compared to me, you’re an angel.”

 “I’m a whore, Dean. And a cheap one.”

 “And I’m a murderer.”

 Cas doesn’t have anything to reply to that.

 “Y’know, they call me a war hero?” Dean continues, his voice choked up. “Dad’s so proud. But what’s heroic in killing people? In murdering _kids_ , torturing men, taking their lands, raping their wives... What’s to be proud of about that?”

 The guilt and disgust in Dean’s voice as he turns further away from Cas is heartbreaking. Castiel has known a lot of soldiers, most of them cruel and violent, some of them just broken, but Dean… he’s haunted. Haunted by what he’s done, what he’s seen, and somehow Cas recognizes a part of himself in him. They’ve both seen and done things no humans should see or do. And Cas can see, God save him, how still there is something so pure, and so right inside of Dean.

 And before even thinking about it Cas does something instinctive, something he never did before, and he leans closer to the warm body of Dean, kissing and then letting his cheek rest on the burning shoulder. There’s nothing sexual in his gesture, but he just wants to offer support, somehow, maybe tell Dean that even though Cas is no one, even though they don’t really know each other, Cas thinks Dean is good, really good, and he wishes he wouldn’t hate himself so much. He’s not very good at human interactions, except ones related to sex, but to his surprise Dean turns toward him and rest his lips on Cas’ forehead, fingers finding their way to his hand and pressing. It feels a bit like a thank you.

 It’s the first time they really talk about anything, and it seems to settle something between them. Cas isn’t scared or disgusted thinking about all the things Dean might have done, but he does feel like maybe they’re not so far apart anymore. And they’re certainly pretty close right now, because soon Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ waist to bring him closer, and then he kisses him again, with the same strange tenderness. In fact, he kisses every inch of Castiel’s face, his nose, his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, his eyes. He holds him between his large hands, careful not to hurt him, smiling at the little sounds Cas lets out every time he whispers “angel” against his skin. There’s something so pure, so beautiful in the way Dean says the word, in the honesty of his eyes, that Cas shivers and falls apart, and for a moment he believes him.

 For a moment Castiel believes he’s not just an empty and useless instrument of pleasure. Between Dean’s caresses, under his soft lips, his body quivering in pleasure, his skin an altar to which Dean needs to pray endlessly, Cas believes in things he never believed in before. And for the first time in his life he can let himself go to sleep in someone else’s arms, naked, warm and safe, pressed against Dean, who he trusts completely despite how little he knows of him. Someone who kisses his neck and holds his hands, who promises nothing bad will happen again, at least for tonight. And the warmth that Castiel feels blossoming in his chest doesn’t only come from the burning body pressed around him. It comes from the inside, from a tiny sun slowly filling up his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is very personal and close to my heart, and this story is my way of dealing with issues like rape and sex work, that have always been really bad triggers for me.
> 
> This was therapeutic for me because by writing it I was in control of the events, and also of the emotions and feelings of the characters. Facing a situation like rape where I am in control, and can decide how characters will cope, how it will end, if the rapist is punished, was really important and good for me. 
> 
> I never saw this story any other way, I never saw it without those events and that's why they happen. I hope that they are what I want them to be; necessary to the plot and for the development of this peculiar story and relationship.
> 
> I hope that for outsider eyes it won't be seen as useless violence or sadistic, but I have seriously no idea if it actually is or not. I'm sorry if it is. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who have read it, and please give me your feedback!
> 
> -
> 
> New note: Dean is ambiguous in the way he talks about what happened in the war. He seems to imply that he has done everything he lists (the murder of kids, the torture, the raping) but he hasn't. Dean has never raped anyone. He has done things in the war he was ordered to do, including some of the things he has said, but most of all he has witnessed his brothers in arms do unspeakable things (like rape) and he couldn't do anything about it (because turning on his own army would have had him killed). But he still carries a huge guilt because to him, seeing those things happen and doing nothing to stop it is just as bad as doing them himself. So when he talks about it he doesn't exclude himself from those who have committed all those acts because to Dean, he was a part of it. (Especially since he was a part of the army coming to invade them...) So I wanted to make it clear. Dean has never raped anyone.
> 
> Also, at the end, he doesn't fuck Cas. He makes him feel good, but he has zero intention of fucking him, or of asking him to provide any kind of service.


	4. Mort de n'avoir pas pu, te rencontrer

 The incident with Zacharia, and then the night Cas spends in Dean's arms, change a lot of things. Because somehow it forces him to acknowledge that Dean _cares_ for him, cares for his safety and his health, and maybe even for him as a person. Cas knows that it's probably just the kind of man Dean is, someone who  _cares_ about others, but it's still more than what anyone has ever given him. And Cas realizes he feels things too, feels things for Dean, and he's not sure what it is but it's scary and exhilarating at the same time.

 Cas realizes he lives for those days, the days he wakes up early to spend the afternoon at the public baths, washing himself clean with real soap, expensive soap, because he knows Dean will be coming. The soldier usually waits at his door, his beautiful features breaking into a smile the moment he sees Castiel. And he always greets Cas with a kiss, sometimes a slow, delicate press of lips and other times a more urgent and desperate kind of kiss. Cas knows he shouldn't, but he lets himself imagine that Dean has been waiting for it, longing for it, because himself surely has.

 Dean inserts himself in his heart and his life little by little, just by being himself and doing the things he does. His confessions about war seem to have unblocked something, and the silences they used to share are now filled with flowering conversations. The talking, despite sometimes touching very serious matters, often turns into teasing and giggles, making Cas' heart flutters in ways he never thought it could.

 Dean is surprised to find out that Cas actually _knows_ things, mostly classical culture, from his late night readings in his old masters' library. It’s far back in the prostitute’s mind, mixed with memories of his childhood as a servant, but he never really forgot. Cas wasn't happy back then and he certainly wasn't well treated, but he can still say it was the best time of his life. Dean seems saddened when Cas talks about it, but he reassures him by telling him all about the magical nights he spent sneaking into the library and gorging himself in stories about another world. A better world.

 Dean finds Castiel's profound yet limited knowledge very amusing, and enjoys teasing him about it, and attempts to educate him about more modern subjects. Cas had guessed immediately that Dean was rich and lived comfortably, but now he knows Dean's also very educated, especially in current events and popular culture. Dean knows every line of the plays presented at the public theatre, the name of every important person in town, and the words of every story trending in the public speakers. The soldier enjoys very much referencing to those and watching Castiel frown and tilt his head in confusion. He says it's "adorable". Dean then he asks Cas to tell him one of his old legends, and he listens to him speaking for what seems like hours, fingers tracing circles on Cas’ dirty skin.

 There's something about the way Dean teases Cas when they’re together, about the way he looks at him and touches him, that really does something to Castiel. Something it shouldn't. Dean shouldn't be wasting his nights in a rat hole with an overused prostitute, but Cas never feels better than when they're laying on his bed together, talking about nothing and everything, Dean's strong arms holding him close.

 Sometimes as he falls asleep in the creeping light of sunrise, exhausted and worn out, rolled into a ball on his tiny mattress, Cas wonders what Dean's life is like. How big his house is, if he has a wife, if they have children, what kind of dad he is. If he's happy to go back to his family when he leaves Castiel's bed. He must be – his life has to be pretty great, although he usually avoids present tense in their conversations.

 Cas can’t imagine Dean’s life being anything but idyllic, yet still he comes _here_ , to the cheapest, dirtiest whore house in the city, and there’s something not right about it. That’s why Cas wonders if Dean thinks about him when they're not together. If Cas is something more to Dean than just a cheap prostitute he pays to screw. It feels like more to Cas, because Dean is different than anyone he's ever met; but to Dean, Cas can't imagine he'd be anything remarkable, anything noticeable, anything more than a funny distraction. And Cas hates himself for  daring to think he could be.

Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes, Cas wishes Dean never came along. Because it was easier before, when he didn't _feel_ things. Living in his almost comfortable numbness, with the days and the fucks going by, all pretty much the same in the end. When nothing mattered and Cas would take refuge deep into his own mind, shield himself from feeling anything, good or bad. When he'd barely notice the rough hands slapping his rear, pulling his hair, twisting his neck, forcing him to kneel down and take them, always finding new ways to humiliate and hurt him. Cas used to completely cut himself from all those physical sensations, and from the feelings coming along with it. And it worked. Cas survived a life no one could ever wish for, and he made it because he didn't feel.

 But with Dean... Cas  _wants_  to feel it all. Every kiss, every touch, every second they spend together, Cas wants to _feel_ it and to take it in, and he opens himself up for it, allows sensations and emotions past his skin in a way he never did before. Except that it's two, maybe three times a week if he's lucky, for a little hour or two when the sun goes down, it's all the Dean he gets. And it's so much harder to go back into his blurry, patched numbness after he’s gone.

 It's just that the way things are going, the way him and Dean are slowly getting so used to each other, it’s an intimacy Cas didn’t even know could exist, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. He doesn’t know how to handle the way Dean kisses him, and trails every inch of his body with his lips, like he deserves to be tasted. How he constantly murmurs praises in his ears, how he always holds Cas so close, and how his eyes always look for Cas' gaze, except when Dean kisses him in that way that makes his heart flutter up to the sky.

 There's so many things that Cas is slowly becoming addicted to. Like the way Dean’s eyes darken with lust and desire when Cas wraps his lips around his cock, like Cas is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. That low growl that escapes Dean’s throat when he comes deep inside of him, gripping him so tight it hurts. Sometimes Cas can almost hear his name escaping the heart-shaped lips in a moment of agony, and it's hard to stay silent while Dean just lays on top of him and kisses his eyelids, his forehead, and his cheeks like he needs to drink him up. Dean is breaking down every defence Cas has ever built for himself, he's changing the way Cas exists, giving him an essence, a goal, a light. Cas doesn't even know what it means, but he feels so much emptier than usual when Dean inevitably leaves.

 The exoletus even catches himself imagining he's with Dean when he gets fucked roughly by a myriad of different men and boys. Of course none of them come near the tenderness and dedication Dean gives to him, but it helps Cas enduring it to focus on his memories of Dean.

 Cas thinks about how Dean takes his time to open him up, to play with him before they start, because he's always the first of the night and wants to make sure Cas will like it. He thinks about the way Dean listens to his sounds and seems to be so turned on by them, like Cas' pleasure is important for his own. He thinks about the way Dean constantly presses himself against him, moulding the curves of their bodies like any space between them is torture. How his lips always search for Cas’ mouth, or for his skin, how his fingers dig deep in his flesh, like it's never close enough.

 How Dean always makes sure to tell Cas how good he tastes, feels, and smells, like he knows that Cas puts a lot of energy in being less dirty for him. And most of all Cas thinks about how Dean kisses him all the time, every bit of him, and how he's never met someone who could be so dedicated, so loving, so _good_ to someone else - let alone a cheap whore.

 Cas wonders where Dean got this habit of caring so much, and if he’s like that with everyone. It's selfish of course, and it wouldn't make sense for Cas to be the only one to receive such attention. Dean must be someone who needs this kind of contact, someone who gets his happiness and pleasure from sharing - after all, he shares not only sexual pleasure with Castiel but also food, conversation, and laughter. And he probably shares it with other prostitutes too, and a wife if he's lucky, because a man with so much care to give should have as many people as he needs to give it to. Cas tries to just feel lucky to be one of them.

 Except that sometimes Dean will say things, or do things, that give Cas this stupid, irrational hope that maybe he’s special. That maybe Dean cares for him in a way that's just... for Cas.

 Like that time Castiel comes home and finds Dean waiting at his door, on a day he didn’t expect him. Dean's eyes are red and swollen, and his lips are shaking like something bad happened. But before Cas can ask anything Dean grabs him and kisses him with humid lips, holding him so tight Cas can barely breathe. And between desperate bites to his lips Dean whispers those strange words, “I need you, Cas. I need _you._ Please, Cas...”

 And Cas doesn’t know exactly what he means, he doesn’t know what Dean needs from him. So he asks Dean if he’s okay and the soldier doesn’t answer, not until they’re both naked and Cas is straddling his waist. And with his cock buried in Cas' ass and his face pressed in his neck, with Cas’ arms around his shoulders and his fingers caressing his air, Dean finally answers. “I'm okay, Cas. _Now_ , now I’m okay."

 And Cas doesn’t know what to think of that, what to think of Dean’s urge to hold _him_ , to kiss _him_ , or of the fact that sometimes when he’s about to come Dean asks Cas to just look at him, like his eyes are what he wants to see when the ultimate pleasure strikes.

 Cas finds himself unable to sleep sometimes, because he thinks about that man too much, that mysterious man whose name is the only thing he really knows. The only person in Castiel’s whole life who ever treated him like more than the inhuman instrument he always thought he was. Who really looks at him, who really tastes him, not just like an object, not just for their own pleasure but for his too. And Cas has so many questions about the life Dean never talks about. Cas knows he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t wonder, he has no _right_ to even hope, and he already gets so much more than what he deserves from Dean. Yet the questions are always there, assailing him at every hour of day or night, and none of the answers he imagines make him feel any better. Either Cas is nothing to Dean, or he's something he shouldn't be, something he can never be, and Cas doesn't know which is worse.


	5. Et quand vient le soir, pour qu'un ciel flamboie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very happy with this chapter but I can't keep editing it and re-reading it if I want to get somewhere with this story. It was written after actually finishing the whole thing and I hope it'll fit. So yeah there might be things that read weirdly sorry about that.

 Dean seems to very much enjoy surprising Castiel with gifts, especially food that he makes himself. And it’s always a special moment when Dean opens the delicate cloth to reveal the treats, smiling fondly as he watches Cas savour every bite.

 That night Dean tells Cas about how his mother used to make this dessert for him when he was sad or hurt, and how it’s the only sweet he ever liked besides pie. It’s the first time Dean mentions his mother and Cas wonders if he means that she has stopped making those treats for him or if she simply isn’t there to make them anymore. Although the melancholia in Dean’s eyes when he speaks makes Cas think it’s the latter.

 The soldier has started saying things like that, dropping hints about his personal life between tales of war memories and imitations of his favourite actors, and Cas hangs on to every detail. Dean's life is fascinating to him, and he loves getting to know the man who's become such a big part of his life.

 That night Dean seems particularly emotional, and Cas kisses him on the cheek and slides his nose along the scruffy jaw before looking down to Dean's hands. They're holding a satin cloth containing small balls of dough, all covered in a fine powder that must be sugar. The treat is lighter than Cas expected when he takes it between his fingers, and he frowns at the contrast of his dirty nails on the white pastry. But Dean’s looking at him with sparkling eyes and his mouth half opened, excited and hopeful as always, and he doesn’t seem to care or even notice how none of this fits in Castiel’s life.

 The texture of the balls reminds Cas of cake, except firmer and slightly heavier, and the dough is soft like Dean's silk clothes and tastes of lemons. The flavour goes along beautifully with the sweetness of the sugar and Cas closes his eyes, taking the time to let it melt on his tongue and slide down his throat. He blushes under Dean fond stare, and to the way his lips stretch over the pointy teeth when the soldier smiles even wider.

 With the second bite Cas discovers the real surprise, a jelly centre that tastes like  raspberries. It's a sweet and sour jam, striking red and rolling down his chin, which doesn’t seem to bother Dean. He slides a finger under Cas’ jaw and licks it clean, lost into happy tales about his mother’s cooking.

 With the last bite a drop of jelly falls on Castiel’s chest and his lips are covered in powder sugar. Dean leans over, wiping Cas’ mouth clean with his tongue, and then goes down to lick the mixture smeared over Cas’ nipples. His movements are as tender as usual, hands brushing down Cas’ side, and despite the sex that took place barely half an hour ago Cas feels familiar goosebumps spreading on his skin.

There’s no client at the door for now, and Dean takes his time to suck on his flesh, leaving little red marks where the jelly used to be, before looking up and smiling at Cas again.

 And then Dean does something curious. He grabs the cloth that used to contain the cake balls and deliberately pours the leftover sugar between Cas’ legs, coating his dick in a way that reminds Cas of the pictures of snow landscapes he saw in old books.

 “Damn…” Dean murmurs, faking to be disconcerted. “Well, I guess someone’s gonna have to lick it off, uh?”

 Cas opens his mouth to answer but Dean leans over again, kissing him gently before setting himself between his legs.

 So far Dean has always used his hands when he wanted to give Castiel pleasure, and it’s more than enough for Cas - and much more than what anyone ever did. Cas very willingly gives Dean oral stimulation, but he never expected it back, and never wanted Dean to submit himself to it. Not that it’s such a horrible thing - Cas really enjoys feeling Dean in his mouth, tasting his pleasure, hearing his sounds. But it remains an act of submission, and certainly not something a prostitute deserves to receive from someone like Dean.

 The soldier’s intentions are obvious now and Cas wants to protest, wants to tell Dean he doesn’t need to do this. His cock isn’t worth it, it probably tastes bad, and he can just wipe it clean with one of the sheets… but Dean’s takes a flat lick around his pelvis, tongue going pointy and hard as it traces closer to Cas' hardening cock, and then a mouth engulfs his balls and Cas can’t form any words.

 Seeing Dean on his knees and elbows, his beautiful freckled shoulders bent over just for him, it’s already too much. And Dean smiles when he looks up at Cas' swollen dick, when he opens his mouth and runs his tongue under the pink head. The prostitute shivers when the warmth of Dean’s lips wraps around him, and he feels himself crumbling down on the mattress with every stroke of Dean’s tongue.

 Dean is hesitant, clumsy at first and Cas realizes he must have never done this before, which only makes it all the more special. And he’s really trying, like he really wants to please Cas, looking up through his dark eyelashes and it’s almost too filthy to watch. His tongue is softer than anything Cas has ever touched, and it licks around his shaft and twirls under his foreskin in such an obscene, beautiful way that Cas surrenders completely.

 He surrenders to the way Dean’s hands are stroking and caressing him like he _deserves_ it, like he deserves all of this love and attention. Like his body is worth this pleasure, like he's allowed this gift and this moment. The heat works through Cas' body in shock waves, the strength of his pleasure taking him completely by surprise. When Dean hollows his cheeks and takes him down his throat Cas throws his head back, shivering from head to toe. He closes his eyes and grabs to the sheets, and despite the sensation of floating away into another world, Cas could swear Dean even _hums_ like he actually likes it.

 Dean slowly bobs his head up and down, striking pink lips pressed around Cas’ cock, and then he runs his hand up to where Cas is gripping the sheets and interlace their fingers. It's all that Cas needed to let himself fall. The press of Dean’s palms, the energy running through them, the softness and warmth of mouth, it’s way too much. It’s way too good and it’s all for Cas, just for him, Dean’s doing that for _him._ And maybe it’s wrong but for a moment Cas doesn't care, and he feels tears of gratefulness building up with his orgasm.

 He warns Dean, whose fingers lets go of Cas’ hand to wrap it around his throbbing cock to rub the orgasm out of him. He pulled back his mouth but his face is still close, and he’s licking Cas’ balls to send new shocks of pleasure that throw him completely out of his body. Cas loses it, every muscle contracting as his hips uncontrollably grind into Dean’s hand. He feels like he's floating away, into another world full of something unknown, something beyond pleasure, beyond happiness, nirvana, maybe. Maybe that's what it is. For a second Cas is so happy he doesn't even realize the mess he's making, how loud he's being, or the fact that he's coming all over himself and Dean's face.

 He’s brought back to reality by Dean’s kisses on his stomach, and he opens his eyes to find the soldier thoroughly licking him clean, swallowing his cum like it’s no big deal. Like it’s natural for someone like Dean to clean Cas’ dirty skin of his dirty cum, like it doesn’t matter that Cas’ skin has known so many touches and so many men, so many of their juice poured all over him. All the happiness goes away as suddenly as it came, and Cas almost feels sick and grabs Dean’s face to bring him up.

 “Don’t - you don’t need to do that, Dean. You shouldn’t -” Cas realizes he’s still panting. “I just - don't do that.”

 Dean rises a worried look up to Cas and frowns, his voice hoarse from the effort of his jaw.

 “Did I do it wrong?"

 "No, I-"

 "You didn't like it?"

Cas doesn’t understand why Dean's looking at him this way, like he's so eager to have pleased _him._ After all, their whole relationship, their whole _thing_ , whatever it is, is based on Dean being a client and Cas a provider. And Cas is more than fine with that, he loves it just the way it is, and it feels right to him because that _is_ his place. The only place he's ever known and that he'll ever know. But Dean is changing everything.

 “Of course I... enjoyed it,” Cas finally lets out as Dean crawls back up to his level. “You were very… But you didn’t - you shouldn’t - you didn’t have to do that for me, Dean.”

 Cas immediately regrets those words, although they're true. Somehow he still feels like he's ruining everything, like he should have stopped Dean _before_ , not express regrets now and make Dean feel like he did something wrong. But to Cas' surprise Dean's face breaks into a shy smile.

 “I know,” he says, and he looks down, a blush spreading on his cheeks. “But I just..." He shrugs. "I wanted to.”

 “Why?”

 Castiel feels very stupid for asking such a ridiculous question. But it's a complete mystery to him, all of this, all of Dean, it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.

 “I wanted to taste you,” Dean murmurs, eyes trailing down to Cas’ lips. His warm stomach is pressing on Cas side and his hand cups the prostitute’s cheek, the bright irises sliding up again. “I wanted to feel you, Cas, I wanted to maybe... get a part of you that not a lot of people got.”

 Cas swallows. Dean’s face is so close and he’s saying those things again, those things that make Cas melt from the inside into a puddle of nothing and everything, that make Cas want to let go of the whole world and die here in Dean’s arms with nothing but those words in his ears.

 “And you know what?" Dean whispers, his eyes filthy and dark as he leans even closer. “It felt amazing. You, _you_ taste freaking amazing, Cas.”

 Cas tries to form words, to say something, _anything_ , but he can’t. All he can do is stare at the freckled sky full of stars, at the curvy lips he dreams about at night, and that he now gets against his own. Dean's mouth is warm and tasting of sex and Cas bites on it shamelessly. Dean's hands cup around his face and he's smiling against his lips, and it's a new kind of kiss... A kiss that tastes of happiness.

 A loud knock at the door forces Cas back to his pitiful reality, startling them both.

 “Hurry up in there!”

 The voice is angry and impatient, like a whip slashing and bringing Cas back to his real life. The cold, lonely, painfully real life.

Dean’s jaw tightens and his eyes fall shut, hands clutching around Cas for a moment before relaxing.

 “I’m sorry,” is all that Cas manages to say.

He forces himself to chase away the feelings, the _emotions_ , the wants and the needs. He doesn't look at Dean and sits up, hoping the tears will stay behind his eyes.

“No, Cas, I'm sorry.”

 Dean moves behind him, dragging Cas back into his warmth. He slides a hand around Cas’ cheek and forces him to look into his eyes, his honest, devoted, wide open eyes. And behind the anger twirling in the green irises Cas can see something else, something like guilt, and sadness.

 “I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs. “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you. It’s just - my soldier allowance, it’s barely enough to let me come see you at all and-”

 “You don’t need to explain,” Cas firmly cuts.

It’s distressful to have Dean justifying and apologizing for things that are entirely Castiel’s fault. His work, his life, all of  _this_ , it’s his problems and Dean shouldn’t be apologizing for it. Even if he had all the money in the world, Dean shouldn’t apologize for not using it on Cas. And he certainly shouldn’t feel guilty or bad because of him, not ever.

 “It’s fine, Dean,-”

 “No it’s not.”

Dean’s keeping Cas from moving with a hand around his wrist, and he leans to try to catch Cas’ evasive glance. It’s been confusing enough having Dean do those things for him, and now he's trying to explain, like he owes Cas anything, and he's so _good_ and honest and it's just way too much. But Dean’s not letting Cas go, and with two hands he gently force Cas to look up as he speaks again.

 “This, Cas, us - it’s not how I like to do things. It’s not… how I _want_ to do things with you.” This time Dean’s the one who looks down, skin turning pink under the freckles again. “My dad, he… He won’t give me the inheritance money from my mom until...  until I marry. A woman." Dean says the word like it's the most awful idea in the world, his voice breaking down into a murmur. "I don’t have much right now, all I have, I…” Dean looks up again, like he needs to say something but he doesn’t know how. “I’m sorry, Cas, I _hate_ this, if I could I’d buy your whole night, I’d buy _every_ damn-”

 “Dean, don't."

Cas can’t hear whatever Dean’s about to say, he _can’t_ , he’s already said so much, too much, way too much for Cas' poor little heart.

Dean isn't saying anything now. Another knock resonates in the tiny room.

"I wish... I wish I didn't have to charge you," Cas says quietly. Dean just opened his heart up to him, and he wants to do the same, even if he doesn't deserve it. "I wish - if there was any other way I could see you, Dean..."

Dean’s eyes glisten with more sadness and more fondness with every word. Then he cuts Cas in the middle of his sentence with a burning kiss, and Castiel would give anything to just be able to abandon himself to those lips, to those hands, to this man saying things and making him believe he’s something.

 Cas’ heart is bursting and he feels tears building up behind his closed eyelids, because Dean said it, he said that if he could he would see Cas even more, if Dean could he would be here all night, _every night_. It's crazy and impossible but Dean wants  _him_ , he wants him for more than just two times a week, he wants Castiel and now he's holding him and kissing him like - like he never wants to let him go.

And there's nothing in the world Cas wants more than that.  But if he doesn’t let go Cas won’t be able to afford food tomorrow, and if he starts cutting food he’s gonna get weaker, and if he becomes weaker he’ll lose clients, and things will unravel until his death. He’s seen it happen, he knows that in his world any weakness, any mistake means an ending. And he needs to live, because Dean wants him.

Another impatient shout to the door and Cas forces himself to pull away. He can see in it in the soldier’s eyes, the guilt and the anger and the disgust, and for a moment he fears that Dean's going to grab that guy out there and slice his throat open.

But he does no such thing. Instead he gets dressed, and just before leaving he walks up close to Castiel and very gently lays a kiss on his temple.

 “Take care of yourself, alright?” he murmurs. “I want you alive and in one piece when I come back.”

 Cas nods, unable to say anything else, hands grabbing on to Dean’s one last time. And then it’s another tender kiss, a sigh, a last glance of the caring green eyes and Dean is out the door.


	6. Le rouge et le noir, ne s'épousent-ils pas

 Cas keeps his promise to Dean, to take care of himself, and Dean keeps his promise of coming back. And Cas hates himself for this _thing_ in his chest, for this feeling beating and blossoming and expanding through his body until he feels like he’s floating. The feeling that makes Cas smile when he closes his eyes, that makes his steps feel so much lighter when he walks down the streets. This thought that Dean, whatever and whoever he is, whatever they have, Dean thinks about it and wishes it could be more.

 And Cas knows it can’t _ever_ be more, but he finds a peace within himself knowing that it’s not just… It’s not just Dean being Dean, it’s also about Cas. About Cas being special to Dean. Being the only prostitute he goes to, the prostitute he wishes he could buy all night, every night. And Cas doesn’t know what it means or what it’s supposed to be, what name to give his own feelings or to Dean’s. But somehow they have something, a little tiny something, and even though life will always keep it from becoming more, at least it happened.

 For a small moment in time, Castiel exists for someone.

 And that’s all it is at first, for a week or two, it's enough. The knowledge of this thing, of this moment when another human being sees Cas, really _sees_ him for what he is under all those layers of dirt and misery. But rationality and reality are impossible to escape, and soon Cas' thoughts go back to that space of anxiety and fear, and he realizes that _this_ can’t last much longer. He always knew that, of course, but now Cas comes to realize that the good parts won’t always be worth the bad.

 Because Dean changes things, he changes things so slowly that Castiel barely notices, until nothing is the same, and he can’t go back.

 One day Cas realizes how wrong it feels now to have anyone else touching him but Dean. How disgusting it is to have anyone else holding him, anyone else doing those things to him. Those things that used to be so normal to him, so mundane, those things that Cas did every night, that were no big deal - until Dean came along. And made those things special. He made those things beautiful, he made those things _magical_ , unique, he made them _their_ things yet Cas still has to do them with all the other men, and it feels so _wrong_. Dean changed everything, Dean _is_ everything, and Cas doesn’t even know what to call what they do together.

 Sometimes they’re like a fury, like a storm, their embrace taking them everywhere around the tiny room. From the moment they touch to the moment Dean leaves, Cas’ world is turned upside down in the most beautiful way. He’s taken away, Dean takes him away from his world and to another dimension, and Cas can’t even tell where he is, who he is, what is walls and what is floor and where his skin ends and Dean’s begins. And nothing else exist but the sounds, Dean’s sounds, the touches, _Dean_ ’s touches. Nothing matters but the way his fingers dig bruises and scratch valleys into Cas' flesh, how he pulls and twists his hair and how both their lips get so bitten they taste like blood. It’s worlds being shattered, oceans splitting and comets shooting through the skies. It’s violent and kind of terrible how much Cas needs it, how much Dean seems to need it too - to _fuck_ , to fuck so hard, but most of all just to touch and press and drink every part of each other.

 Cas can’t ever get enough of Dean’s taste, of Dean’s smell, of Dean’s voice, of his damn freckles everywhere. Of his perfect lips that make Cas tremble just at the thought of them on his body, of his eyes that look like meadows under the sun. He can’t get enough of the way Dean feels against his body, inside his body, above him and under him and behind him and around him. Not a lot of clients leave Cas with that many bruises, that many marks on his dirty skin. But Dean’s small wounds feel so good that when he’s alone in the dark, or when other fingers are digging in his flesh, Cas feels the slight pains and he can almost feel Dean again. Those bruises, those scratches, those memories, Castiel holds on to them, loves them and cherishes them because somehow it feels like Dean is still with him, even after he’s gone.

 And when they’re not violent, when the storm calms down, then Dean will lay Cas down on the mattress, on the soft sheets he bought just for him because he thinks Cas deserves _better_ , and he’ll take care of him with a tenderness and a devotion that Cas didn’t even know could exist. The soldier will kiss him, love him and fuck him so slowly, dragging long, desperate moans out of him until Cas can’t take it anymore. Until he’s a shaking, shivering mess, until his heart is about to explode and he’s about to lose his mind because he needs to come so bad and Dean won’t let him, making sure that when he does, it’s the best he’s ever had. Dean taking care of him, only _him_ , taking care of his pleasure, of his body, it's almost too much to handle. Cas never loved anything as much as he loves doing everything Dean will order him to. It’s an addiction, it’s a sickness, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. And for the first time in his life Cas gets to wonder if maybe, sometimes, he’s happier and safer and more loved than anyone has ever been.

 *

 Dean slowly but surely starts sharing more intimate details of his life with Castiel. If at first he would mostly talk about the past, about war or about stories and concepts and the universe, at some point he begins talking about other things, real, present things.

 Dean tells Cas about his dogs, that are actually his brother's, but he says he ended up loving them just as much. He talks about the family house, full of memories of his mother. It must be big because Dean mentions his horses, his cows, his sheep and the long fields full of fruits. He talks about his little brother, how he’s the reason Dean went to the army in the first place. According to the law, one of them had to, and Dean knew from the start Sammy would never make it. Not because his little brother is weak, but because according to Dean Sammy is a dreamer, he likes books and studies, he likes animals and people and life. Dean knew Sam would never be the same, never survive intact years of horrors and killing - if he survived at all. And Cas tries to hide it but he tears up with the soldier talks about that, because Dean was obviously always the same as how he describes Sam to be - just as sensitive, just as smart, just as deserving of a peaceful life. Dean went through something he shouldn’t have, Cas thinks, and somehow he makes Cas feel the same - like maybe _he_ also deserved better than what he got.

 Cas really enjoys listening to Dean speak. He has a low, gravelly voice, warm and unctuous, just like honey – Cas knows about honey now, because Dean brought him some, and it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and it’s exactly what Dean’s voice is like. And Dean is so beautiful when he talks about the things he loves. His green eyes glisten with pride, his long dark eyelashes flutter and cast a delicate shadow on his cheeks. And he gets a crooked smile sometimes when he talks about his little brother, and it draws little lines on the corner of his eyes like tiny angel wings. Sometimes Samandriel wakes up and climbs on the bed with them and rubs himself on Dean, who seems to have taken the cat in his affection, and nudges him against his strong chest.

 Castiel feels so good in those moments that he often starts drifting away, his head resting lazily on Dean’s shoulder, surrounded by his reassuring and familiar presence. It’s so easy to forget about everything when Dean’s there, taking Cas away from his own existence. Like when he was little and he fell asleep with his nose in a stolen book, dreaming of seas and ships and mermaids in the waves. Except that now Cas dreams of long alleys of fruit trees, of honey bees and dogs and love, and of the wonderful man who inspires it all. And unlike during his childhood, Cas doesn’t get woken up by a beating.

 Instead he wakes up with Dean gently shaking him and kissing his forehead, whispering in his ear that his next client's waiting and that he has to go. Cas does his best to pretend everything's fine, but the way Dean kisses him one last time, biting his lips just a little too hard, and the way he says "later, angel" with a sad smile, it breaks Cas' heart every time. And Dean must give Cas' next client a scary kind of look, because they suddenly seem a lot smaller once the soldier's out the door.

 


	7. Je te parlerai, de ces amants-là

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grossiest fluffiest fluff in the history of ever, I am almost ashamed of how ridiculously over the top the next two chapters are. almost.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles one night, realizing that he’s been talking about his big house and his big dreams with a prostitute living in what can only be described as a hole in a wall.

“It’s fine,” Cas reassures, nuzzling in Dean’s neck. He wants to tell him that their conversations are the best moments of his life, but he doesn’t.

“It must be amazing to own so many things. I never... _owned_ anything.”

Cas doesn’t say that as self pity and truly doesn’t think much of it, it’s just the truth. It doesn’t make him sad anymore, he doesn’t cry about it at night, but he is curious about what it must feel like to _own_ things. Even his room, the furniture, he rents it, it’s not _his_. Cas thinks it must be very empowering to possess objects, lands and values.

But his words seem to have a big effect on Dean because the soldier turns towards him, something different sparkling in his eyes. It’s darker, but warmer, and Castiel shivers under the powerful stare – as always. He hasn’t gotten used to it yet, the intensity of Dean’s gaze, and he doubts he ever will. Dean shifts his weight closer to Cas, reaching up with his fingers to trace along his cheek. His thumb brushes very delicately over Castiel’s lips, soft irises following the path, and Cas holds his breath.

 “You do own something,” Dean finally murmurs. “You own _me_.”

 Cas' heart stops.

 “Wh-what?”

 If he wasn’t already sitting he would've probably crumbled down to the ground. He barely realizes that Dean slid his palm around his cheeks to hold his face up, the green irises wide open and diving into Cas’ frozen eyes.

 "I’m yours, Cas. I’ve been wanting to say it for a while, y’know, a long while, but... I’m no good with words and feelings and all that stuff. But Cas, if I’m anything... you own it all.”

 Cas’ throat goes dry. He feels thrown outside of his body, he can feel his eyebrows frowning and a strange sound escaping his throat, but it’s far away. He sees Dean’s hand holding on tighter to his face. His scruffy, dirty prostitute's face, that shouldn’t be touched by anyone near the rank of Dean. By anyone as righteous as Dean.

 Sometimes, when it became too hard to stop the thoughts, Cas would let himself imagine how it would feel to have Dean say things to him, things like this, although never as sweet, never as honest and what he just said. But it never felt this way, never felt like his insides were being torn apart, like he wanted to throw up and run away.

 It’s _wrong_.

 Dean _can’t_ feel those things, he _shouldn’t_ feel those things, because it’s too pure, too honest, too true. His eyes are too bright, too hopeful, too devoted, and it’s like he can’t see, can't see that Cas is not enough of a human to deserve any of it. Cas is an object, an object to a mean, and not anything coming close to the beautiful and complex being that Dean is.

 “Dean-”

 Using all of his willpower Cas tears himself away, pushing strongly against Dean's chest, throat swollen and heart aching like it’s been cut in two.

 “Cas…”

 “I can’t own you,” he spits, sitting on edge of the mattress and turning his back to Dean. “And you certainly can’t own _me_. My life is selling myself to anyone who wants me, Dean. I don’t even own myself, I’m a whore, an abomination, I'm a-”

 But Dean’s arms are like an ocean, a tide around Castiel, bringing him back into a world of warmth and green and light. He lets his hands run down Cas’ body, pressing every inch of him against his own freckled skin. His lips brush on Castiel’s neck, on his shoulder, on his face, and as always it’s way too much. Cas can’t do anything but surrender to the caresses, and to the words Dean murmurs in his ears.

 Words about _love_ , about _worth_ , about how much Cas means, how much he is.

 Dean murmurs about Cas’ eyes that are like the sea and the sky mixed together, about his lips that are everything he thinks about all the time. About his face, that is more beautiful than all the arts of the pantheons. About his stories, his voice, his soul that Dean feels like he can touch when they make love - yes, he says _make love_ , and Cas has never heard two words more beautiful together. Dean talks about the way Cas’ smiles makes his face look like a sunrise, and how it makes Dean feel so warm inside when he’s always so cold.

 Cas has closed his eyes, allowing little by little the words inside of his heart. It's so hard to believe, that all of his stupid little whore dreams could come true, that this wonderful man can actually look at him, _see_ him, and find him beautiful _._

 More than that, even, because Dean keeps talking as Cas hides his face into the pillow, cheeks flushed and heart beating erratically like butterfly wings. Dean murmurs about how Cas is an angel who lost his wings, a sparkling pearl lost deep in the bottom of the ocean. And then, because Cas still tries to protest, to tell Dean he could have _anyone_ , that he isn't special, that he hasn't done anything to deserve any of Dean's affection, the soldier cups Cas' face into his big hand and forces him to look into his eyes. _  
_

 Dean tells Cas about how he lost he was when he first came to him. How he was so broken, so empty, the rage and hate of war had burned everything good inside of him, it had destroyed him until he felt like nothing was left. Dean tells him that he felt like such a monster he couldn't even look Sammy in the eyes, his little brother he loved so much. He wanted to die. He thought he didn't deserve life. And then...

"And then... you. _You_ , Cas."

Dean smiles, brushing his fingers on Castiel's forehead.

"I just... got curious one night, picked a random building, a random room, and there you were... I found you."

Dean repeats those words as he kisses Cas forehead, holding him tight with his arms around Cas' shoulders, murmuring his secrets just for Cas to hear.

"I found you, my angel, and you saved me _._ _You_ saved _me_."

Cas can feel that he's crying but he can't contain it, Dean words are so loud, so clear in his heart, resonating through his veins,  _you saved me_ ,  _every time I touched you, every time I looked at you, every time I kissed you - you put me back together, piece by piece, and you saved me._

Cas' emotions in that moment are too incredible, too big, too strong to describe, and he himself is surprised to still be alive, to have not died simply from hearing those words murmured in his ears, that his heart didn't burst from all the love it contains. And more than ever in his entire life Cas realizes that Dean is real, and he's here, he's holding him and kissing him and there isn't a doubt, not a doubt in his low voice.

 “I don’t want to _own_ you, Cas. You don’t - you deserve freedom and… You deserve to have anything, anyone you want. But _me_ , Cas, you own me. I'm yours, completely. And I want you to have _all_ of me."

Dean's body moves, rolling them together until he’s sliding under Cas, opening his thighs and settling back on the mattress. Cas feels his breath accelerate in his mouth.

“Take me, Cas. Own me.”

 The prostitute finally opens his eyes. He’s never seen Dean look like this, so vulnerable, so submissive, giving up all his power and control. In the dim light, the freckled face looks scared but Dean’s tone is decided, and his hands are soft as they caress Cas’ face.

 Dean isn't asking him for anything, he isn't asking for Cas to say something in return - as if he knows that Cas _can't_ , he can't let his heart pour out all that it contains just yet. But this, this Cas can do.

 “Have you ever-?”

 Dean opens his mouth to speak but no sound comes out, so he simply shakes his head.

 “Are you sure you want this?” Cas asks, trying to control the shiver in his voice and his erratic heartbeat. “You know I’m fine with the way we-”

 “I know.”

 This time Dean speaks out loud. A scared spark shimmers in his irises but he smiles, pushing himself up to come meet Cas’ lips.

“I want to feel what _you_ feel. And I want to feel… you. Inside of me. I want you to own me, Cas. I want to be yours.”

 Castiel nods. Every muscle of his body is tensed now, his senses fired up, he can feel every hair stand up on his skin, pressed tight against Dean's. Cas is so full of love in this moment, and Dean's words have finally settled in his mind, and he knows that this gesture is the ultimate one that can prove how much he means it.

 This isn’t something men do lightly, and certainly not something anyone near the rank as Dean would _ever_ allow anyone to do. Men fuck, but they don’t get fucked, unless they have no choice. Maybe, when two men of the same rank fall in love, surely one of them has to be on the receiving end, but Cas certainly doesn’t know anything about that.

 For his job, for being fucked, especially by so many people, Cas was never considered a man, not by himself and not by anyone. Not even a human, not even a person. But even when he was fucking him Dean made him feel like more, like he was a human too, like his pleasure was just as important. Like he mattered. And now Cas gets to give back to Dean, to make him feel as good as he did in his arms, to make him discover the true wonders a man can feel while receiving love from another man.

 And Cas knows, standing above Dean, above that soldier, all muscles and scars and pain and love, that his life is never going to be the same.


	8. Qui on vu deux fois, leurs coeurs s'embraser

Cas starts very slowly. A few kisses on Dean’s lips, a few roll of their hips together to warm up their bodies.

 Dean doesn’t really seem to know what to do with himself. For the first time since the beginning of their interaction, he’s not the one in charge, not the one in control. His body, his field of muscles, scars and freckles, is now Cas’, to do what he pleases with.

 Dean’s eyes are dark and warm, and the room never felt so small, so sheltered. The only light comes from that one small lamp on the cabinet, and for some reason, the world outside has fallen completely silent.

 Everything is perfect.

 

 Cas brushes his palm on the side of Dean’s jaw and Dean turns to gently kiss each of his fingers. They move into each other’s warmth, bodies pressed against one another, excited pulses rushing through their veins.

 For the first time, Cas is allowed to spend as long as he wants exploring the body of the soldier that he's grown to know and love. He gets to kiss every mark, every freckle, every little galaxy spread out on Dean's skin. The soldier lets out a surprised whimper when Cas sucks a bruise in his neck, brushing his nose at the crook of his chin, and then on the soft skin right underneath his ear.

 He can feel Dean’s pulse there, the fast beating of the organ that’s keeping him alive, and Cas realizes that Dean’s heart doesn’t only hold the soldier’s life. It holds his own too. Dean’s existence, is all that there _is_ to Cas now. His life is so intricately linked to Dean’s, each of his breaths, each of his steps, each of his thoughts, it's all him. _Dean._ And that pulse that Cas is now kissing, is the small manifestation of the heart that holds not only Dean's life, but also his own.

 Cas continues his gentle exploration of Dean’s body. He knows most of the stories behind the scars now, he’s heard them whispered in his ear while he fell asleep on Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s body is like a map and each mark is a treasure, a chest that holds a whole world inside of it. Cas kisses them reverently, making sure to not miss a single one.

 He knows what Dean likes, how he likes it, what to do with his mouth and his hands in all the places he’s been allowed before. Soon he has Dean moaning his name, muscled bending and relaxing at will, and when Cas comes up to kiss his lips again, Dean seems more confident, smiling, sweating lightly. Cas can feel that his muscles are more mellow when he places a hand on his hip and gently pushes him on his side.

 Dean moves without a protest, and Cas presses himself against his back, sliding a leg between Dean’s thighs, licking a drop of sweat along his collarbones. Dean sighs into Cas’ embrace.

 “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” Cas murmurs as he kisses his ears.

 The skin under his lips turns red and Cas sees the corner of Dean’s lips twitch, a fathom line appearing at the crook of his eye.

 “You are the most beautiful man I have ever touched, and the most extraordinary soul I have ever met.”

 The words come out naturally, although it’s the first time Cas allows himself to say such things. Dean has said things to him, so many things, and so far Cas could only let him, but he couldn’t say back all the things he felt. Because Dean choosing to say those words to him is one thing, but Cas forcing his own feelings onto Dean, forcing him to be cherished and loved by a whore, by a parasite, didn’t feel right.

 But suddenly Cas wonders if anyone has ever told Dean how beautiful he is, how strong, how smart, how truly amazing and extraordinary, how much of a miracle amongst men his existence is. From the family Dean described, from the past he holds and the obvious hate he has for himself, Cas realizes Dean must have never heard all of those words he uses for a low-end prostitute - beautiful, good, worthy - used to describe himself.

 So Cas tells him. And Dean doesn’t answer, but he grips tighter on the arm Cas slid around his waist, and a tear slowly leaks from his eyes to his neck. And Cas keeps murmuring about Dean’s shining soul, about his lion heart, about his beautiful and intricate mind, while licking that salty tear, kissing that strong neck, and very gently caressing his lower back, and then his ass.

 Castiel doesn’t stop murmuring praises as he gently pushes a slick finger inside of Dean, only stopping to catch his breath, because despite wanting to focus all of his attention on the soldier, Cas can’t deny the effect that this is having on his own body and mind. He’s exploring a part of Dean that _no one_ , ever before, has touched. He’s penetrating him in a way so intimate - and yes Cas has been touched that way so many times, but this is different. Dean never has, but he’s letting Cas, he’s _asking_ Cas, and when Cas does, one oiled finger at a time, it’s like nothing, and no one, he’s ever touched before.

 He can feel the shivers under Dean’s skin, hear his choked breaths, see his lips bitten under his teeth. Cas feels every sensation, every contraction, every push and pull of Dean’s muscles, of his warmth, of his softness. He feels every centimetre that Dean allows inside of him, and hears every sound, every surprised moan of pleasure, every hiss of uncertainty. And from time to time Cas asks the soldier if he’s okay, if _this_ is okay, because despite his own cock leaking against Dean’s back, the most important thing is that Dean is still positive, that he still wants this.

 “I want to feel more of you, Cas,” Dean breathes out. Cas felt his body open up, slowly getting used to his fingers, moving back and forth with him, and now Dean has turned his head so his lips are exhaling his burning breath right into Castiel’s ear. “I'm ready. I want you to fuck me."

 His tone has turned into a plea, and Cas can’t but kiss him and finally allow himself to feel his own need. He knows Dean will hurt, in the beginning at least, and he tries to warn him - but then a smile appears on the soldier’s lips.

 “I’ve survived fifteen fucking years of war, Cas. I think I can handle this.”

 He does. Better than Cas expected, better than himself surely did the first time. Of course Dean tenses, every muscle protests at first when Cas slowly pushes himself in. And Dean joins in his own groan, maybe truly unrestrained for the first time. He doesn’t seem to care about being heard, and his cries come from a deep place, reaching a new high as Cas bottoms down.

 And then suddenly their bodies are one. Cas’ whole front pressed against Dean’s back, arms gripping on his chest, teeth biting his ear, and he sees Dean’s mouth stretch into a smile. The soldier lets out a loud, satisfied sigh and Cas feels the tight muscles relax and gently pulse around him, and this time he’s the one whimpering because he’s never, _ever_ felt anything like this before.

 He’s never felt as connected with any other human as he feels at this very moment, as they both lay still and let their bodies finally enjoy this incredible proximity. And then Cas starts moving, and Dean starts making those sounds, those little helpless whine. His hand loosens around Cas arms and he throws his head back, his hips slowly join in Cas’ very careful movement.

 Cas takes deep breath, trying to stay in control, but truly he’s not himself anymore. He’s not Cas, he's not here, nothing else exists, nothing else matters but the man in his arms. Dean’s sounds, Dean’s skin, flushed and burning under Cas’ lips, his muscles under Cas’ palms, the scars he feels under his fingers, and his heat, his heat and warmth and incredibly tight softness that welcome Cas inside of him, that lets them share this amazing, out of time moment.

Cas doesn’t know how long it lasts, with Dean’s lips searching for his own, their hips joined in an infinite movement, and all of those physical sensations spurring and twirling and full of feelings and emotions. Dean seems to want to form words, but he can't, melting in Cas' arms, and it takes all of Cas' strength to keep his rhythm, the movements creating all of this pleasure, pushing himself in and out of Dean. Cas whimpers, trembles, rubbing his stomach against Dean's ass, and there's so much he wants to say to him but he can't.

 Tears have been quietly sliding down Dean’s cheeks for a while now, and Cas isn’t sure what kind of tears they are. During his life, Cas has only known tears of terror, of fear, of despair and pain. But since Dean came in, and now more than ever, Cas realizes that tears are simply the surplus of emotions one can’t keep inside anymore, and they can mean beautiful things sometimes, things like happiness and love.

 And at this moment, tangled on this worn out mattress, muscles burning in the effort, body shaking in pleasure, Cas thinks it’s probably a mix of everything, and he feels tears building behind his own eyelids.

Not that it’s sad, making love with Dean like this, although it is tragic in a way. This moment, perfect, incredible moment when Cas truly feels like his soul itself, if he has one, is touching Dean’s, like their bodies aren’t the only ones naked and raw, but their minds and souls alike. And it’s tragic because they’re in a tapped bed in a whore hole in a world at war where literally everything separates them, where they have no future, no reality outside of this awful little alcove that contains everything they are. It’s tragic, Cas thinks as he tips of the edges of pleasure, bringing Dean along with him. It’s tragic and beautiful and magical and incredibly sad, and maybe that’s why they’re both crying when they fall over the edge together.

 Dean screams out his name, bites into Cas’ arm, his body closing up around Cas who can’t but follow him. His orgasm is like a tide, like a gigantic wave that swallows the whole world, light and darkness with it, endless, and Dean’s still there, like an anchor that Cas holds on to through this storm. For a moment they float together on that cloud of numbness and light. Dean is there, warm and breathing and real, more real than he’s ever been to Cas before.

 And maybe that’s why they stay there so long, and when they come back, when the sweat starts drying up and becomes cold, when the sheets suddenly feel damped, when Cas realizes his arm has gone numb from Dean’s weight and that he’s drooling on Dean’s neck, neither of them say anything.

 The world is back, the sounds, other people, yelling and fucking, the smells, sex and urine and insanity, and their little room with walls of dirt and a worn out mattress. It's back.

 But Dean is smiling. Grinning, with his mouth and his eyes, caressing Cas’ arm with his finger almost distractedly. He brings up Cas’ hand, kisses it, smiles wider, and then turns over a lays a very sweet kiss on Castiel’s lips.

 “You okay, angel?”

 Cas swallows a lump in his throat and nods.

“Yes, I’m…” He realizes there must be sparkles in his eyes because Dean’s smile widens.

 They kiss again, this time Dean holding Cas and rolling him on top of himself, wrapping his legs around Cas’ waist. Forehead against forehead they breathe out, slowly, catching each other. Cas wonders if anyone, in this whole world, in the history of humanity, has ever reached this level of happiness, and he concludes that no. No, because this is way too much, no one could ever survive this. This must be what they call Heaven, paradise, perfection.

 “All I want,” Dean finally murmurs, eyes closed, “is for this to never end. I just want this every freaking day. I just want you, all the time, if I could just-”

 Cas doesn’t answer. He kisses Dean again, for a long time, trying to keep it all in. Then he settles against Dean’s chest, ear on his heart, to listen to its steady beating.

 They don’t discuss it but they both know that tonight Dean is not leaving. Tonight they’ll pretend that they _do_ get this future, this destiny that they both desperately want but cannot have. Tonight they stay together, limbs and souls intertwined, lips on skin and breathing only each other.

 

 “So,” Dean asks after a moment, his voice soft and slightly sleepy. “Was I... your first?"

 Cas pushes himself on his elbows, looking at Dean with saddened eyes.

 “No.”

Dean brushes gentle fingers along his spine, up between his shoulder blades, and then down again, very delicately. He seems to meditate for a moment, and then speaks again.

 “You were my first... almost everything. But I’m never gonna be your first anything, am I?”

 There’s a bitterness in Dean’s voice, but it’s not resentment. He’s not mad, he’s just sad about it. Cas’ throat swells up. He’s not better at words than Dean is, and he doesn’t know how to tell him everything he’s been feeling from almost the first time he met him. He kisses Dean’s lips, the line of his jaw, the crook of his ear.

 “You don’t need to be, Dean. You’re… You _are_ my everything.”

 _You’re the stars and the sun and the earth, and if I have a soul you_ are _it, all of it, you are my heart, you are everything that matters, that will ever matter to me. I don’t know how I existed before you, or how I’ll live without you. You changed everything, you gave me life, and my heart beats for you._

That’s what Cas thinks in his head. Or maybe, maybe he says it out loud.

Castiel, abandoned child, overused prostitute, never would thought his words could ever make a soldier cry.


	9. Dis, quand reviendras-tu?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 months later almost to the day, here I am. Trying to finish this story. I've got just a few chapters left, so, let's keep our fingers crossed.
> 
> Part two (chapters 9-13) are inspired by Dis, quand reviendras-tu? by Martha Wainwright.

 It just happens. 

 For an instant, Castiel’s world finally makes sense. For a few weeks Dean is his, entirely his. And for the first time in his life Castiel isn’t scared. He isn’t afraid of what the next day will bring, he isn't afraid of not waking up or of what he'll find when he does. He _knows_ , knows that another human being loves him entirely. Completely. What they tell in stories, what Cas read about in those books in the moonlight when he was ten years old, it’s real. It happens. It has happened to him.

 Dean. 

 And it’s not a dream, because night after night Cas comes home and Dean is there, smiling at him like he’s something precious, something special. Something unique. Dean wraps his arms around Cas' waist, buries his face in his neck and murmurs a thousand “ _I love you_ ” in the delicate skin of his ear.

 Two weeks.

 And then, one day, Dean isn't there.

 The room is empty when Cas arrives, so he waits. He doesn’t take any other client that night just in case. He knows it’s stupid, he knows he'll lose money, he knows Dean probably just had a last minute thing and will show up tomorrow and everything will be normal. After all, Dean’s life is not only his own. His father, his brother - anything could have happened. Dean _will_  be there tomorrow. Because he loves Cas, and he gave himself to Cas, and they have something special. He'll be there.

 

 He isn't.

 In every silhouette that lines up at his door Cas sees Dean, until the curtain opens and a stranger walks in. Cas can’t not work, so he does, but he’s absent, detached, which displeases some of his clients. But Cas doesn't care. Dean is all of his thoughts, all of his soul, and never before Cas has felt such a distance from the world around him. He doesn't feel the touches, the hits, the scratches, he can't smell anything, hear anything. It doesn't matter, if Dean isn't here.

 Every day Cas tells himself that Dean will come tomorrow. He repeats it in his mind without interruption like a litany, _he'll be here tonight, he'll be there tonight, he'll be here tomorrow._ He has to. He has no other way to live. Dean will come, with a perfect explanation on why he wasn’t there. He’ll hold Cas, he’ll apologize, even if he doesn’t need to, even if he doesn’t owe Cas anything, but he still will because he’s Dean. He’ll kiss him, and they’ll make love, and then this will all just be another bad moment to forget. Cas is used to those.

 

 One week goes by, and then another, and Cas feels his own existence slowly starts to slip away. He begins to realize how little he knows of the man that has become his whole world. He knows his first name, Dean, but he can’t ask about him, it’s too dangerous. If anyone knew, if somehow someone important found out a male prostitute is looking for a decorated soldier, a man of importance, it would be the end of Castiel’s miserable life.

 And of all the descriptions Dean gave him of his house, of his lands, of his life, Cas realizes none of it is concrete. He has no idea in which part of the city he lives, if he even lives in the city, or outside - probably outside, because big houses with fields and farms, those are on the outside. But where? Dean mentioned a river, but there are so many rivers, passing through or flowing around the city, and even if Cas knew, he can’t just walk in and ask for Dean. Even cleaned up, even with his less dirty shirt on, Cas looks at best as a beggar, or a slave maybe, and it would endanger both their lives to even step on Dean’s family property.

 And anyway, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know who Dean’s friends are, where he spends his days, where he goes to bath, which market he visits. Cas has no idea where to look for him. Dean could have lied about it all, his name, his occupation, could have left the city, could have vanished into thin air for all Castiel knows.

 It’s what it feels like.

 So he looks for Dean wherever he goes, to the market, to the baths, to the public hearings. He looks for meadowy eyes and golden freckles, he looks for a voice warm like honey and that _scent_ , spicy and sweet, so peculiar and that Cas would recognize anywhere. But Dean is nowhere. And every thought imaginable runs through Castiel’s mind, because he has so much time to _think,_ and since Dean came into his life, Cas has forgotten what he used to think about.

 Dean is everything now; he’s all of his thoughts, all of his emotions, he’s what Cas thinks about when he needs to escape and dream, which is all the time. Cas used to think about stories, used to force his mind to remember every word, every sentence, every comma of the great stories he read in secret when he was a child. He used to sing songs to himself, recite poems, use all the strength of his being to go far away in his mind and escape reality. He'd escape the cold, the hunger, the unbearable smell and heat of his little room. Escape the men touching him and using him, sinking themselves so deep inside of him, hurting him. The only place Cas had left to escape was even deeper inside of himself, far up in his mind, down the bottom of the sea with mermaids and krakens and pirates.

 But now, since Dean came into his life, he’s become what Cas thinks about to bear his everyday life. He thinks about every inch of Dean as he offers himself to strangers night after night. He counts Dean’s hair, the golden brown ones of his head, the rough, rich ones growing on his jaw. He thinks about how they feel pressed in the crook of his neck. He counts the delicate, almost invisible blond hair on Dean’s back, how soft they are under Castiel’s tongue. He counts the longer hair of his legs, and finally, he counts the curly, dark brown hair growing around Dean’s cock, crowning it like the flowers around statues that Dean describes from his garden.

 Every night Cas counts Dean’s freckles, which he knows by heart now. He knows the exact patterns of the little stains smeared over his nose, scattered on his cheeks, he knows all about the little golden stars printed across his shoulders. And when he can’t sleep, Cas closes his eyes and pictures Dean’s shoulders, the way the muscles run under the dotted skin, and he may not see the sky from his little hole in the ground, but Cas doesn’t need it, Dean’s freckles are his stars. He can spend hours finding new constellations, patterns reminding him of those exotic creatures he saw drawing of in the old books. There’s lions, dragons and chimeras, there’s flowers and trees and clouds; Cas found a mermaid on Dean’s left asscheek, and a tiny oak growing its roots in the base of his thighs.

 There is so much more about Dean that Cas can think about, his voice, his smell, his scars, his _stories_. He has so many stories, and Cas feeds on them. He draws in his mind sketches of the gardens with the cherry trees, draws pictures of the dogs which Dean described to him with as much detail as he could, traces the alleys and the flowers and the vast yard, and all the stories about Sam.

 There is so much to think about, and Cas’ imagination hangs on to Dean’s world in the darkest hours; but now only does Cas realizes how dangerous all of that was. What he thought was a breath of life, maybe the first one he ever felt on his poor skin, was actually poisonous. Without Dean’s presence, without Dean actually being there at least once a week to bring him new stories and make the old ones revive, without his existence materializing in the tiny world of Cas’ alcove, all of those images are dying, and dying fast.

 And now they’re replaced with fear, fear much greater than any danger that Cas’ lifestyle ever put him in. Much greater than death by starvation or from being beaten up too hard, much greater than any pain anyone could ever bring upon a poor prostitutes in the low life of the dirtiest city. 

 The possibility of Dean’s death – an illness, an accident, a murder – is so unbearable that Cas can’t breathe when he thinks about it. And then there’s the ever so real possibility of it all having been _lies_. Of Dean abandoning him, alive and well but never to be seen by Castiel’s eyes again. The possibility of Dean having been caught and punished, of soldiers showing up at Cas’ door and beheading him for ever daring to lay his hands on Dean of Winchester, soldier and son.

 

 It’s been over three weeks, three weeks of Cas feeling himself slowly dying, slowly fading back into the half life he was living before. Yet this time he knows he won’t be able to survive it. This time, if Cas has to go back, he’ll die.

 

 Cas is makes his way through the crowd, holding his very, very slim making of the week in his palm. But he doesn’t really care, he’s not been hungry for a while. Lentils and bread are all he can afford, and for all Cas cares he wouldn’t even feed. He’s about to leave the public place, dragging his empty carcass back to his hole, when something catches his eyes.

 It’s him.

 The silhouette is unmistakable. He’s far away, on the other side of the marketplace, half hidden behind a tall building, but it’s _him_. Dean’s light brown hair is glistening in the sun, freckled arm raised as he points up to something. The shock of his very obvious aliveness causes Cas to drop his few pieces of gold all over the ground. He doesn’t go after them. He’s too busy looking at Dean, Dean alive and well, Dean _breathing_ and smiling and pointing and talking about stuff with a bunch of people, and very often leaning over and whispering things in the ear of a very pretty woman next to him.

 Cas doesn’t know which emotion tears through his chest first. Relief, probably, because his sun isn’t dead. He lives. _He lives_.

 But it’s quickly followed by the most daunting thought of them all. Dean lied.

 It wasn’t true. Something went wrong, because Dean wouldn’t do this to Cas, he wouldn’t just abandon him without a word. The Dean that he’s watching right now, smiling wide and laughing with his arm around that woman’s waist, leaning in to kiss her and bursting into laughter with the people around them, that’s not his Dean. That can't be him. He _wouldn’t_ \- unless he lied. About everything.

 Cas has seen enough. He turns around and walks away, but not before he catches a glimpse of green flashing in his direction.

 

 His legs are hollow and shaking, he can barely stands, but somehow he does. Cas floats away from the people yelling at him, telling to look where he’s going. He doesn’t see the women back off in disgust as he breaks their circle, doesn’t know what are these streets he’s walking on. He just needs to get away, run, _escape_ , escape the world where Dean doesn’t love him, where Dean is alive and healthy and _smiling_ and living a perfect, happy life far away from Cas.

 His thoughts shell away from him with every step, grain by grain, losing their essence. Losing their realness. Things become simple.

 

Cas runs. It hurts everywhere. People are yelling. Noise. Pain in his chest. No breath. Light fading. No sound. Nothing. Ground. And then…

 A voice. A voice just like Dean’s. Hands, strong hands. Grabbing him.

 “CAS!  _Cas_ , wake up. C'mon, Cas.”

 It’s blurry. Dean’s scent. Noises. Darkness. Something grabbing him, pulling him, forcing him to move, but Cas can’t fight. His body is unresponsive, chiffon doll in the ocean, he’s not even _there_ anymore. His light, his will, all gone, and then - Dean, could it really be?

 Cas doesn’t know where he is. He’s on the ground, part of him at least, he can feel the cold dirt against his legs. But there's also also someone. Someone warm, shaking him, forcing life and emotions back into his body. Castiel's eyes get used to the dark, and everything comes back all at once.

 Dean, alive. Dean _here_ , it’s really him. Holding Cas. Saying things, saying his name, saying words that Cas refuses to hear. He pushes against Dean’s grip, turning away from his face, his beautiful face so close to his own. He tries to crawl away, but Dean’s too strong. When Cas finally form words, his throat is raw, and his lips are painful and cracked. He hasn’t had water in a long time.

 “Let go…”

 “Fuck, Cas, what the Hell happened to you?”

 “What do you think?” Cas chuckles dryly, and then he coughs, his vision fainting again.

 Dean grabs his face, and then a cold rim of metal is pressed on his lips, followed by long sips of water. Cas would fight, but he’s so thirsty, and he drinks until he coughs again.

 He finds himself nudged against Dean’s chest, his mind slowly coming back, and he realizes Dean’s pressing his lips on his temple, along with something wet, like tears. The arms around Cas’ shoulders are shaking.

 Cas makes another attempt at pulling away.

 “You can go now, I’m fine.”

 He doesn’t really know what he expects from Dean, he doesn’t know why Dean is here, did he see him, run after him? Why? And now he’s seen Cas, miserable and weak, he’s seen what he’s done, and Cas just wants to leave, and go home to that hole where he belongs.

 “We need to talk,” Dean murmurs.

 Cas shakes his head, tries to get up. Dean is so much stronger than him, especially after three weeks of eating so little, sleeping so little, driving himself near madness. Cas realizes he’s finally crying, and shaking, because he thought Dean was _dead_ , because his body is so exhausted, and now finding out that Dean isn’t, and he just- He can’t fight, but he can’t do this either. He needs to let go, to let go of Dean and for Dean to let go of him.

 The soldier is still talking but Cas isn't listening, still trying to squirm away.  
  
“Cas, listen to me!" This time his tone of voice cuts through the fog surrounding Cas' mind and he stills. “I’m getting married, Cas,” Dean repeats in a softened voice.

 This time Cas can’t not hear it. But he’s able to push away, and he’s barely freed himself that his back hit the wall, skull cracking against the stone and shooting pain through his body. They’re in some kind of shed, apparently, a storage place, because Cas can still hear the buzzy sound of the street just outside.

 Dean looks alarmed and he steps forward, grabbing Cas’ face again, rough hands still delicate around his cheeks. Dean looks anxiously into his eyes, like to make sure he’s still there, and then another smile stretches his lips. The bright irises are sparkling with joy, wide smile dragging lines of happiness around his whole face, and he’s looking at _him_ , looking at Cas, the low-end prostitute he’s been fucking for God knows how long, and how can he think for one second that Cas would be the person to come to to share his _joy_ about his _marriage_ …?

 “Dean, I can’t- _please-_ ”

 Cas is shut down by a burning mouth pressing against his lips. He doesn’t even know how to react. Nothing makes sense, nothing at all, and he can’t get away and he can’t stay here, because it feels like his heart is simply going to stop beating. It’s gonna break and he’s gonna die because this is too hard. Dean’s thumb caress Cas’ temple and force him to look up in Dean’s infinite eyes, irises like sunshine through the leaves of olive trees.

 “Cas, don’t you get what this means?” the soldier whispers. Castiel closes his eyes, surrendering. There’s a high pitched sound ringing in his ears, making Dean’s voice almost inaudible, but it’s too loud still. “It means we can be together. I get my inheritance. I can get a freaking house! _My_ house. I can get servants, I can hire _you_. We can live together, _be_ together, Cas!”

 Slowly, the words start making their way inside of Cas' mind. _Together_. A good thing. That’s what this is supposed to be. Dean’s not happy about getting to be with someone else, he’s happy because he thinks he can be with _Cas_.

 Like such a thing could ever happen to them.

 The words sound so sweet and good, yet Cas can already taste the bitterness of his own tears. He can feel Dean’s moist breath on his mouth and he closes his eyes, lips tightly pressed together. Nothing is that simple, nothing works like that, not in Cas’ world. Dean is pressing him against the wall now, murmuring promises and dreams against his mouth. Cas is so weak, so empty, it’d be _so_ easy to just forget everything and let go. He can’t even stand, the only reason he’s still on his feet is because Dean is holding him. But his words don’t make sense, and they certainly don’t mean happiness.

 “Your wife will find out-” Cas protests, and he gives a weak try at pushing Dean away again.

 “No, it’s not like that-”

 Dean’s stupid protests are the last drop. Something ignites inside of Cas, sparkling strength to his numb limbs and he yanks Dean off him with a rough push to his chest.

 “Weeks! _Weeks_ , Dean!” Cas chokes as he opens his eyes. His swollen, puffed out eyes, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care about how weak his voice is, about how broken he sounds. “I thought - you were _dead_ , I was - _weeks_ , and you… you were-”

 Dean’s eye are red, fixed on the ground, his face twisted with so much pain it takes Cas’ barely recovered breath away. He didn’t expect is words to have such an effect, to see Dean’s hand shake violently as he slowly approaches Cas again. His voice is so low, so defeated, tainted with a torture he didn’t even have when he talked about the war.

 “I know, Cas, I’m so - fuck, Cas, I’m so fucking sorry, I never-” Dean braces himself closer again, hands tightening around Cas’ shirt, his emotions tipping over, pouring out. Real emotions that Cas, even so far in his empty shell, can feel. “It was _torture_ , Cas, being away from you, knowing you - knowing what you thought, how you felt, I - I was scared to death of losing you, but Cas, it was the only way. Castiel…” Dean leans over, nose caressing Cas’ cheek, pleading for him to look back. “Please, listen to me?”

 Cas takes a deep breath, swallows and nods. Dean takes a step back, shivering fingers sliding to grab on Cas’ hands. The prostitute feels like he can finally breathe for the first time in weeks. He feels too weak to move so he just turns his head away, staring at big wooden boxes while Dean holds his hands dearly.

 “A few weeks ago, I walked in on an old family friend, Charlie Bradbury,” Dean begins, his voice gaining strength with every word. “She was with her… her parents’ cook. _Female_ cook. They were, y’know, _together._ Like you and me.”

 This time Cas can’t help his heart from throbbing and his eyes from jumping up. Dean’s face looks so disgustingly sincere, and that ridiculous _happiness_ cutting through the tears again. He smiles when he sees Cas respond to the squeeze of his fingers.

 “She thought I was gonna run to her parents and out her, but instead I just thought - I thought this is _it_. My way out. _Our_ way out, Cas. I asked her to marry me like, right there. And I wanted - I wanted to make the wedding happen as soon as possible, for _us_ , for _you_ , because when I told her about our situation, we both… we both saw our way out.”

 Dean’s voice suddenly lowers, breaking down to a murmur.

 “But in order for that to happen, I had to woo her, _court_ her in front of her family. They weren’t easy to convince. They’d heard things, about me, and they didn’t - they didn’t trust me. I spent every day and every night with her, with them, trying to get our families to come to an agreement. That’s why I couldn’t - they were keeping a close eye on me, Cas, they had doubts and they wanted to be sure I didn’t have... girls all around the city. I couldn’t even send a letter, a note, a servant. It was torture, I knew you’d be…” Dean’s grip on Cas’ fingers tightens, his eyes glistening. “But I _had_ to. I knew that even if it’d almost kill us, it was the only way.”

 "Where do they think you are now?" Cas asks dryly.

 Dean doesn't blink at the bitterness of Cas' tone and only brings up their linked fingers to kiss the back of Cas' hands. 

 "They think I saw one of my old brothers in arms from the war. One I thought was dead. So I needed to run after him. We got some time."

 Dean cradles closer again and this time Cas lets him. He feels like his mind could explode, like his heart already did, and he’s shaking like a leaf in Dean’s strong arms. Dean’s voice is all soft now, warm and low and he’s holding him like Cas is the most precious, fragile thing in the world.

 “We’re getting married tomorrow, and the day we come back from our stupid honeymoon, we’re moving in a new house. Far away from Dad, from her parents. She’s bringing her cook, and I’m bringing you, and Cas, you’ll never have to go back to that place again, you’ll never have to… _Do_ anything that you don’t want to do, ever again. You’re gonna be my angel, Cas. And you and me, we’re gonna be so fucking happy.”

 Cas feels tears streaming down his face as Dean keeps speaking, salty drops flowing over Dean’s trembling fingers still caressing his cheeks. Cas lets him speak, and truth is it doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter why, if it were good reasons, it doesn’t matter all of millions of apologies Dean murmurs in his ears.

 Cas understands now that that is how it is with them, and one minute in Dean’s arms, one kiss of his lips, will always be worth any amount of pain, of time, of misery Cas has to go through. One minute of this, of Dean’s mouth on his neck, of praises in his ears, of Dean’s smell and Dean’s warmth and Dean’s existence, is worth thousands of years of torture. Cas waited so long for him, but he would do it all again if that’s what it’d take to see Dean again. Those past weeks are nothing now that Dean is holding him, kissing him, telling him those wonderful, amazing things. It’s their story, to wait for each other, to find each other after so much pain and loss, and Cas would accept anything, _anything_ , for a single moment looking into Dean’s eyes, and knowing that this extraordinary soul loves him just as much as he loves it.

 He breathes _Dean_ , breathes his smell and his words, ears flooded by a thousand promises, a thousand dreams. Dean telling him that it’s over, it’s done, this life, _his_ life, his suffering, it’s finished, because now Dean can bring him home, and Cas can have anything he wants, and they’re gonna be so happy, and there’s gonna more food and fruits and wine and honey and _love_ that Cas can even imagine. They’re gonna have bees, and those little furry rodents Cas likes so much, and raspberries, and warm baths and silk sheets…

 And Dean holds him, and Cas grips on to his shoulders, afraid he’s gonna drown in all of the emotion. He feels his body giving up, sobs shaking his swollen chest as he wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and buries his face in his skin. Dean holds him tight and cries real tears in his hair, his voice strangled by all the happiness he can now promise. The strong soldier is rocking Cas against his chest, kissing his hair and his temple and his cheeks, murmuring apologies and promises and so much about love and _forever_ and Cas lets himself forget for a moment what needs to happen before he gets all of that.

 Because there’s the honeymoon, of course. It’s unavoidable. It would've been suspicious if there hadn't been one. Dean will be gone out of the city for two months, two whole months, that’s a lot longer than three weeks. And even if this time Cas will know that Dean's heart is true, true to _him_ , it won’t stop all the fear, all the pain… It won’t stop him from laying awake at night, wondering if something happened; an accident, a boat sinking, a war, a sickness, so many things to worry about. And if Dean survives all of that, who knows if marriage will make him realize he _can_ love a woman, he can love _her_. Maybe they’ll make love and he’ll realize he doesn’t need Cas.

 But that’s all for later.

 Right now Dean promises that Cas is all he’ll think about, promises he’ll come back for him, now matter what he _will_ come back for him. The very night of his return he’ll come pick Cas up and they’ll ride away together to start their new life in a Heaven Dean will make for them.

 Cas lets himself dream a lot that day, during those few stolen hours in the shed, before he has to let Dean go again. He forces himself to think only of the dreams and the promises as they make love one last time, because he will get a lot of time to worry later. And between tears and wet, clumsy kisses Cas says yes, yes of course he’ll wait for him, and then Dean asks him to take him again, fuck him one last time, fuck him hard so he can feel him for days, feel him inside when he’s standing at the altar and when he’ll be so, so far away.

 And later Cas walks home with his heart swollen twice its size and a small piece of paper tucked tight in his fist, knowing that this note, with Dean’s words on it, now holds his whole life. A street, an address, a day. The day when Dean will come back, and will make all of his dreams come true. The place and time Cas will go to his paradise.


	10. Tu m'as dit cette fois, c'est le dernier voyage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Pretty graphic references to Cas' life as a prostitute, including his first night.

 Cas knew it would be hard. He knew that those months of waiting, of hoping, of having to go through everything without Dean by his side, would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. Harder than the first nights he sold himself, when he was all fresh and new and had no idea what men could do, what men could enjoy. Harder than all the beatings, harder than those times he was so wrecked, so weak, so hurt he thought he was dying, _hoped_ he was dying.

 Yet Castiel knew that this would be Hell way beyond anything, because for the first time in his life Cas  _wants_ to live. He wants to make it through the nights. For the first time Castiel needs to stay alive, and it almost kills him.

 

 Cas has known physical misery in his life, he was expecting this type of misery, but he didn’t know the world of desperation his own mind would put him through. He didn’t know that when you can escape physical pain by living in your mind, it means you can’t escape anymore when the misery reaches your dreams, your soul, your essence. He didn’t know that when you lose yourself, when you lose your mind, there’s nowhere left to go. That the mind and the thoughts are a prison with no walls. Not even walls to write the days that go by, to touch and feel real.

 Dean’s absence creates a void inside of Cas that nothing can fill.

When Cas comes back to his little hole that first night, to his little room that’s all he’s known for the past fifteen years, his head is filled with so many promises, so many dreams, and so much _hope_. He can still smell the scent of the man he loves all over him, can still feel his feverish kisses, his burning hands, his body bending under him, can still hear all the words he chanted in his ears.

 And then Cas closes the smelly drapes of his door and reality strikes at full strength. Suddenly it hits him like a slap, how much it smells like urine here. Suddenly all he can hear are the screams outside, the shouts of drunken men and the hits, the cries and the pain of the boys being used. The pleading voices of the most unfortunate crawling in the mud, without even a body to sell.

 Suddenly Cas is everything but numb to his reality, everything is so real, so _there_ , all of his senses wide awake, but all they perceive is Cas’ poor, sad, pathetic, and painful reality. The long nights, the hits, the fucks, it’s all so real, while Dean isn’t. Not anymore. Dean is gone, gone from his life, non-existent - not now anyway. He’s in the past and in the future, but not in the present. Cas is alone now. Alone in this rat hole smelling like sex, sweat, and human dejections.

 

 There’s a stranger on Cas’ doorstep. A man who isn’t Dean, a man who touches him and makes him do unspeakable things in exchange for a little bit of money, barely enough to get through a day. And then another, and another, men after men, all night long. And with each hit, each pound, each load of cum shot up his ass or down his throat, Cas feels the reality of Dean slipping away.

 

 He doesn’t lose it all at once, just bits by bits. Sneaky, the thoughts. Cas is able to keep hope alive for a few weeks, almost a month, but then the memories start fading, and the present becomes all that he knows and perceives. Time seems to extend, slow down, drown Cas in it's painful liveliness.

 It was different before. When Cas didn't know. But now, now with this idyllic future dangling in front of Cas’ eyes, so close and yet so far, a new idea creeps inside his head. An idea he can’t chase away. An idea that only grows stronger with time, that grows with his misery, feeds on all of his deepest fears. An idea so real, so logical yet impossible, that it haunts him every second of every day. This time the dark thoughts isn’t attacking Dean’s love or Dean’s liveliness, no, this time, it’s attacking Dean’s very existence. A sickness creeps into Castiel’s mind and starts eating his soul away.

 What if it was never real? What if  _Dean_ was never real? What if he was just another one Cas' fantasies? 

 What if at some point Cas’ childish fantasies, his stories, took him too far and he imagined it all? That would make so much sense more sense. Cas simply made Dean up, made up this man, this perfect man who would come out of nowhere and save him from his misery. After all, it’s unreal how perfect Dean is in every detail, down to the actual insane fact of _loving_ him. _Him_ , Castiel, not even an actual person, not even a real citizen, not a man and not a soul and not _anything_. Of course he dreamed it. _Of course_ he made him up. Castiel, the child without even a real name, without a family, without a friend in the world, old and overused prostitute, just needed to escape, so he invented Dean, the brave and strong chivalrous soldier who'd sweep in and save him, because he needed hope, he needed promises, he needed… He needed everything that Dean was.

 But then somehow Cas must have realized Dean wasn’t true, he went too far, obviously he _had_ to realize it was false, so he made him leave. He invented for Dean a reason, with a happy ending of course, but a reason for him to leave. A future of love, of happiness, a future without pain, without hunger, but that would never be. A world with honey and bees, with kisses and silk sheets and a soft warm bed, with an amazing lover devoted to him, who would feed him fruits and cake and wine all day long, of course that's just a dream.  A world with sunshine and gardens and contentment, with peace, with everything that a human could want, a _paradise_ … Obviously it’s not real, because that cannot exist in the same world as the one where Cas wakes up with urine and cum covering his face, with bruises on his body and blood in his throat, and memories he can never erase. He made up a paradise and now it’s over, and his memories are turning into dreams, the kind of dreams that starts fading the minute he opens his eyes.

 Castiel’s sense of life, of reality, of _existence_ , float away along with his memories of Dean. It goes little by little at first. One night he realizes that he can’t remember the exact pattern of the freckled oak on Dean’ upper thigh. It’s blurry in his mind, and he can’t recall if the roots went over the small line that marks the curve of his ass. And two night after, it’s the the sound of Dean’s voice that fades. The peculiar intonations, the softness he had when he talked about Sam. Sometimes, for just a few seconds after he wakes up, Cas can still hear it, but it’s gone before he opens his eyes. And when he tries to think about what Dean would say, how he would say it, it’s not him that Castiel hears in his mind, it’s one of his client  instead. A rough, angry, cold voice replaces Dean’s warm, reassuring tone in the back of Cas’ mind.

 A week later, Cas can’t recall the exact shade of all of Dean’s different body hair. The ones on his thighs mix with the ones around his cock, the color of his head hair fades with the one of his beard. And soon after, with a drop of his heart shattering in a million pieces, Cas realizes he can’t remember any of the patterns the golden freckles splattered across Dean’s skin. It’s blurry, he can’t see them, he can’t remember. It’s all gone. It’s slipping away from Cas, impossible to grab, to hold back, it’s all going up in smokes, along with his sanity.

 Days, weeks string by. Everything seems wrong. The client’s never been this violent, this cheap. Cas is so hungry sometimes he can barely stand, but he fights to go on, he forces himself to get up, to walk, to sleep, to _work_ , because despite the doubts, despite the thoughts haunting him, Cas knows what he knew from the very beginning, that Dean is his ending. Whether it’s a good one or a bad one, whether he was even real or not, Dean is the end. And despite losing his memories, despite losing himself, Cas realizes that hope is still winning, day after day. For some reason he always gets up, he always goes on, he always finds a way, something to grab just to get himself through the day. Even when it seems so unreal, when he thinks it's impossible, he can’t help it. He holds on. Minute by minute, hanging on to this stupid hope that this thing, this thing in his chest that’s pushing his lungs open, that’s making his heart beat, he can still reach it somehow.

Dean. Dean will come back. He’ll come back for me. To me. Dean will come back and take me away, and everything will be okay.

 

 By the time the two months end, Cas feels like his own being is barely real anymore. He’s living a delusion, but he’s embracing it. One more week and he would probably die, his lack of care for reality having degraded his health more than he’s even aware of. But on _that_ day, Cas doesn’t care. He’s going to go all the way, live that fantasy, or he’s going to die.

 All of the money he would use for next week’s pittance, he uses to buy a new shirt, and new pants. He walks all the way to a public fountain and takes clean water, washes himself as much as he can. He doesn’t even bother muttering the words now, he just says it out loud, the name the time and the place, where this life will end.

 On that night, Castiel the poor _exoletus_ looks better than he ever has in his whole miserable life. He almost looks fresh, almost looks young. His lips find that shade of pink they always should’ve had, and his body gives one last effort to make him live. He feels a new strength spurring inside of him, he doesn’t feel hungry, and he’s not scared. His eyes are bluer than they’ve ever been, his skin clearer, his lips almost smiling. He grabs his cat, who stuck with him through everything for some reason, and makes his way through the busy streets, with only one idea in his mind.

 He’s going to paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting the next chapter tonight.


	11. Pour nos coeurs déchirés, c'est le dernier naufrage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING/SPOILER: This chapter contains a multiple attacker rape scene. 
> 
> They all get slaughtered afterwards. 
> 
> It's not too explicit, I think, I don't mention any genitals or things like that. But Cas is in pain and miserable even though the chapter kind of ends well (they all get killed and Cas is happy) it might be really triggering.
> 
> I tried to tone it down because just reading this again (I wrote it about a year and a half ago) and I was cringing at how violent it was. So I changed some details and cut out some things but I'm still keeping the main elements there since I want to finish and post this story as it was originally written, as I said before, in a time when I was struggling with my own triggers about rape and prostitution.
> 
> Also, I've never been raped or been a sex worker, this is fiction, but those issues were really bad triggers for me still, so this was just a part of my journey dealing with them.

 Cas arrives to the street corner early, prepared to wait as long as it takes. His empty shell stands straight, his mind blank except for the words that were written on the piece of paper Dean gave him that day. He can hear Dean’s voice again, it’s like a miracle, it’s clearer than it has ever been in the last two months. And Cas hears Dean say the words, the name of the streets and the day, _today_ , at twilight. He promised. So Cas waits.

 He has repeated those words in his head endlessly in the last two months, he knows them by heart, by soul, and even when nothing else made sense, somehow Cas still knew exactly how many days were left before today. When nothing mattered, when his thoughts were only a giant, dark, blurry monster, there was still that one thing clear and certain in his mind. And every day Cas would carve a little X in the wall of his alcove, one for each sundown, because his life depended on it.

 Yet as the sun goes down once again, as the carriages and the traffic get more and more scattered, doubt creeps in a familiar way inside of Cas. He folds and unfolds the dirty piece of paper in his hand, flattens it, stares at it over and over. He’s desperately trying to decipher the words that aren't there anymore, to find a letter he’s missed, something he saw wrong. But it’s all gone now. It’s as if nothing was ever written on it. And Cas can’t even remember if anything really was.

 The night falls around him, darkness creeping on his skin and in his heart. Cas’ very thin hope starts fading. It was stupid of course, stupid to hope in the first place. Dean is as real as those memories of his childhood, the ones of when he would lay in the garden in his first home, away from his screaming masters, and let the sun warm his face, let his mind float away with the wind on the grass and birds singing around him. Cas never could remember if it was an actual memory or a dream he had, just like he can’t really remember Dean now. Dreams were always his way to feel better, to help him escape. And so was Dean.

 But what does it matter, anyway? Cas’ exhausted mind calms down again, on the thought that at least his death should be painless. Somehow he knows he’ll die tonight, like the clock in his mind is already scheduled to stop ticking. What will kill him will probably be weakness, hunger, a sickness he should’ve caught a long time ago. Hopefully Cas will just slowly lose consciousness, it'll be just like going to sleep, except he won't be afraid of what will happen when he wakes up. And one way or another, he’ll be with Dean again. In Heaven. Hopefully.

 

 It’s dark. It’s not a very busy street, Dean wanted somewhere they wouldn't be seen, and the lights of the buildings around the corner shut off one by one. Cas starts feeling weak, dizzy. He hasn’t eaten today, and maybe not yesterday either. He can’t remember now. It doesn’t matter.

 It was good, Cas thinks as he lets his back rest on the wall behind him, feeling Samandriel’s warmth curling around his feet. Whatever Dean was, Cas doesn’t regret it. He made up his own paradise, and now he’s going to reach it. A small smiles rises on his crippled lips. _Dean_. He feels warm. He can almost smell him, taste him, feel him against his skin. How long has he been waiting here for him now? Four hours, twelve hours, twenty years? It doesn’t matter, Cas thinks. It was worth it. And now he gets to live his last moments in this world peacefully, with the songs of the cricket, the quiet of the night, and his cat. No clients, no other human in sight. It’s the first time in more than fifteen years that Cas can actually enjoy night time. It feels good.

 Castiel is in a floating state between anxiety and peace, between excitement, expectation, and fear - fear of the end. The old fear, of Dean existing but not caring, of Dean dying out there, of all the things that could have gone wrong, of Dean being real but never coming back... It’s a twirl of thoughts, an ocean, a storm, but Cas abandons himself to it. He lets his exhausted body crumble down to the ground as the flow of thoughts overtakes his mind. He lets it all go, lets it take over, a billion emotions, a billion thoughts, a billion fantasies, whatever his mind wants, it can have now - no need to stop himself, to pace himself, or to order himself.

 Dean was real. He was real to him. Truth doesn’t matter now, not as Cas’ body shivers in the light rain that starts pouring, not as he slowly slips into an half sleep, full of images, full of dreams. There’s something streaming down his face, rain probably. He feels like he’s re-living bits from his life. Like his brain is wide open. He’s back in the street, when he was still between a child and a man. Sitting in this exact position. That night when he was so hungry he would have killed. And that man approached him, and showed him those golden sparkling pieces of money, and then he brought Cas in a dark place and… And it started.

 So, so long ago. It’s over now though. It’s over because Dean’s going to come and bring him home. Yes, he is. And things are going to be so simple. There’s gonna be happiness, love, peace. Sleep. Sleep in Dean’s arms, awoken by his kisses. Cas won’t have to do anything, except look at him. Love him. An eternity of leaf green and sunshine lips. An eternity of Dean.

  
 Cas is awoken by something he can’t really identify. He feels the cold, the wetness of the rain, creeping back into his consciousness again. It’s still dark around, but time has passed, Cas can feel it. He realizes the night has been completely silent for a while now, not even crickets. But suddenly there's noise. That's what woke him up.

 Voices. Close. Furred, drawling, hoarse voices. Memories flash into Castiel’s mind. It’s too familiar. Drunken men, probably. Singing. Joking. The sounds approach, and suddenly they fade, turning into grunts and murmurs.

 Cas opens his eyes, and his heart stops.

 He recognizes some of the faces emerging from the darkness around him. Regular clients, almost all of them. Three men. With a punch to his guts Cas recognizes Zacharia, missing almost all of his teeth, several scars smearing across his face. Dean’s scars. It was months ago, but they don’t seem to have healed very well.

 The men are dirty, filthy clothes hanging on their hairy chests, greasy beards and glassy stares. Cas has known a lot of men like them and they’re never a dear sight, but back at the whore house Cas had means to defend himself. There were guards, and he had some strength left in his body. And they were never allowed to see him more than one at a time. But here, it’s different. Cas is alone. No weapons, no guards, no room. No other client impatiently waiting. No heroic soldier ready to jump to his rescue. No Dean.

 And they know, tonight they _know_ , because their stinking smiles stretch wider as they recognize him. They say things that Cas can’t understand. Deadly fear has spread to his body, pounding in his ear, smashing against his chest. Of course, _of course_ this is how he dies. Dying in peace, that can never happen. Not to him. He has to die the way he lived, _used_ , an object of pleasure but not for him, never for him.  

 Cas screws his eyes shut and lets it happen. Samandriel hisses, screeches. Foot come out of nowhere, kicking Cas’ only friends away, and then their hands are on him.

 

Castiel fights. Not against the men twisting his arms in a tight grip, keeping him steady while they tear into him. Not against the hands ripping off his new clothes, the new things he bought for _Dean_. Cas fights to retreat in his mind. He fights to escape, with all of his being he fights not too feel. It works at first, because Cas is so used to this. So used to this kind of pain. But he's weak, and they're strong, and drunk, and so heavy on him. He can feel the little grains of the gravel tearing through the skin of his cheeks. He's also pretty sure arms aren't supposed to bend this way, especially not when he hears his bone make a snapping sound and the blinding pain causes him to lose consciousness for a second. Sadly, he's very quickly brought back.

 It’s not the first time Cas is forced to give, or rather to take, but it was never like this, as unrelenting. He tries to let it go, let them do their things, but they're drunk and angry that he's not fighting it. Blows come thick and fast, fists break him into a million pieces, spilling his blood on the paved road under him. He's stuck between their stinky, sweaty, hurtful heat and the dirty, wet ground under him. The pain grabs him, forces him back from his retreat and Cas can’t avoid it. He can’t avoid all these sensations.

 They’re having fun. Cas knows that it's too much, they've taken turn and it's too much, he knows that this time his body, no matter how used he is to this, is getting hurt deeper and more than it's ever been. He can feel himself being teared into pieces, can feel the warm blood dripping down to the cold pavement. It’s raining harder now, and the only relief comes when the blood leaking out of Cas’ body weakens him enough that he starts losing consciousness again.

 Now Cas feels cold. So cold. He’s soaked, it’s been raining all night, and it’s so _cold_ , shivering uncontrollably. A man screams for him to wake up, hits his face over and over, and for a moment there's a warm, burning pain on Cas’ face, but then everything is cold again. At least he doesn’t feel them inside of him anymore. It’s way too cold, no pain can reach. And the tragedy isn’t that Cas is going to die like the whore he is, taken by drunken, violent men he doesn’t know. The tragedy is that with his last breath, suddenly Cas knows - he just _knows_ - that Dean was real. _Dean was real_. In this world, Dean exists. He was never a dream, a trick of his mind. He's real, he's breathing, he's on a honeymoon trip with the wife he married to be able to be with Cas. He’s somewhere, counting the days until he can see Cas again, because he loves him. Dean is out there, worried because he's late. 

 Dean would have come. Dean _will_ come. Cas knows it, he’s sure of it. Things happen, one or two days of delay don’t mean anything. Dean, his soldier, his savior, is coming for him.

 But it’s too late now.

 At least, Cas gets to remember. He sees it all with so much detail. The memories. Every minute, every second he spent with Dean, he can _remember_ now. The pattern of the freckles, the oak tree, the chimeras, he can see it all. Each and every single freckle on Dean’s skin, he remembers. Each scar, each wrinkle, each hair. He remembers Dean's eyes, endless meadows of green, sunshine through the olive trees. He remembers his skin, always so hot, so burning hot. Cas was never cold when Dean was there. His flesh was so soft, smelling spicy, smelling like dreams and strength and love. Smelling like Dean. Cas remembers Dean’s warm, strong voice, and how he screamed, faced deformed by dead cold rage, when he saw what Zacharia was doing to him that one time. Like he’s screaming, right now. Screaming.

 Someone’s screaming.

 The sound breaks through Cas' half consciousness. It’s screaming like Cas never heard before - or he has, maybe, but it wasn’t this loud, this harrowing. A howl of pain, of rage, a noise that cannot be human. A chimera. There’s a chimera screaming and Cas can hear it through his dream. His dream about Dean.

 There’s other kinds of screams too now. The forces pulling on Cas suddenly stop, and something like warm rain showers over him. Like blood. A lot of blood. Pouring around him while he lays on the ground.

 Other sounds, sounds of knives through meat, strangled screams, cries of pain. And that roar. That maddening, raging, _shattering_ scream that’s cutting through Cas’ heart and forcing him awake.

 Pain comes back like his body was thrown in a pit of ember. A thousand punches, the blow of a giant on Cas’ tiny, delicate body. Every bone, every muscle in his body screams of torture. Bruises, everywhere, wounds, burning, it burns, inside and outside, Cas is hurting _so much._  He can all feel it now, he can feel the cold and rough ground under him, he can feel the icy rain and the burning blood, so much blood, so much blood everywhere, can it all be his own?

 Barely breathing, not strong enough to cough, Cas manages to open one eyelid. His face is swollen, broken, and it’s so dark around. He wants to talk, say something, but he chokes on liquid. It burns down his throat. _God_ it hurts so much. It’s so cold.

 Cas can see only the dark shadows of things moving around him. No more hands are touching him, no one is pulling him, fucking him, no one - no one is _doing_ things to him. And his pain is loud, but not as loud as the screams that surround him. He’s not the one being hurt anymore. Cas can hear them around him, can see something, can feel it. Incredible violence is surrounding him, heavy bodies are dropping, voices are begging, something is slicing, slicing through flesh, over and over and over. Until finally, nothing moves. No more sound. The screaming has stopped.

 Numbness creeps around Cas’ body and mind again. Cold numbness, and he almost goes with it, but then it changes. Suddenly, heat. Heat around Cas. Heat lifting him from the ground, so delicately it feels like being lifted on a cloud. A cloud that is shaking around him. Cas isn’t cold anymore, he’s warm. Warm on the inside. There's a sun back inside his chest. The hurt is going away too, leaving his mind and body as the warmth envelops him.

 His chimera is back, and is holding him.

 “ _Cas_.”

 Dean’s voice. Broken, but it’s still his voice. Here. Dean’s heat, Dean’s voice, Dean’s arms.

 Dean is here.

 “Cas, stay with me. Please. I'm so sorry, Cas.”

 Choked sobs, burning lips on his cold forehead.

 “It’s okay.”

 Cas is surprised when he hears the words come out of his own cracked lips. He even tries to smile. He can smell Dean now, can see his shadow towering over him, around him. The arms tighten around his broken body, and now he can feel Dean’s breath through the tears and the dirt and the blood on his face. Can feel his lips, pressing on his skin. He can feel Dean.

 “No, it's not, I left you, I told you to be here and I wasn't and I did this to you, I was late and I did this, I'm so sorry Cas, please don't die, please don't leave me Cas-”

 How beautiful Castiel's poor little name sounds, in this warm and loving voice.

 “It’s okay, Dean,” the prostitute manages to murmur.

 It’s okay, he wants to say. Don’t cry, Dean, it’s all okay. It’s all good. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Nothing hurts. Don’t cry, Dean, I’m okay. It’s okay. It’s better than okay, because you’re here.

 He’s in Dean’s arms, Dean’s holding him, how can anything not be okay? Why is Dean crying, when it’s all so warm, when Cas got his happy ending?

 “You came,” Cas hears himself say, in a faint, faint voice. Why is his voice so little? He tries again. “You came back for me.”

 “Of course I came back for you!” Dean’s voice is so strangled, and he’s holding Cas so tight, rocking him back and forth and now his hands are on Cas’ face. His fingers are covered in blood, and Cas can still feel it leaking out of his body, and he feels dizzy again. He’s so dizzy he barely realizes Dean’s moving, lifting him, carrying him somewhere.

 “Dean...”

 He tries to tell him that’s it’s okay, that there’s no need for all of this, those sounds and this moving, there’s no need, they’re good, everything’s good, Dean’s here. Why is Dean still crying?

 “You better not fucking die, you hear me? I’m here Cas, I’m bringing you home, you’re gonna be fine, we’re going home, I love you, we're going ho _-_ ”

  
 The world turns black before Dean finishes speaking. But Cas goes to sleep with a smile on his face, his heart swollen, light and happy. He goes to sleep happier than he’s ever been before. Dean came back for him, and now Dean is bringing him home, to paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the last chapter, friends. Chapter 12 will be posted tomorrow, hopefully.


	12. Au printemps tu verras, je serai de retour

 The first memories Cas has are not really memories. He isn’t exactly aware, or even conscious. Things are very simple.

 Warmth. Warmth inside and outside, warmth like he’s never known or even thought one could feel. In his very limited capacity of understanding, Castiel vaguely thinks of _paradise_. It’s a notion he read about when he was very young, and he never really believed in it, until… something. It meant something to him, at some point. He doesn't really remember. But he knows that when righteous, religious, or important people died, something called their _soul_ , their _essence_ , ascends to another world. A world where suffering, pain, and sadness don’t exist. And Cas never thought of that for himself, since all his life he was everything _but_ righteous, religious, or important. But then he something happened, and he started thinking about it. He doesn't remember. It's too complicated for him to grasp right now.

 The warmth. It’s like floating, like a leaf gently resting on the surface of a lake, not even disturbed by the breeze. Just resting. With the sunlight sparkling on the water, blinding but beautiful. Like a bright summer day, when it’s neither too hot nor too cold, and there’s no sound but the singing of the birds and the soft swift of the wind through the grass. And Cas is just a leaf. A leaf so light, it just floats.

 Warmth. Softness. So soft all around him. Through the comfortable haze of his mind, Cas is only aware of _not_ being aware. He doesn’t feel a body, doesn’t feel prisoner of anything. To the infinity of his senses there is nothing but light, fluffy, soft warmth. No need, no pain, no reality. Sleep. Dreams, most of the time. Lots of dreams, but happy ones. Dreams of light and warmth. Time itself doesn’t seem to have a relevance, a substance. There’s no counting, no waiting, there’s just… floating. Cas is there sometimes, other times he’s not. He floats.

 

 How long has it been? Something is changing.

 Sometimes Cas feels recalled, pulled towards some sort of physicality. It doesn’t last long. There's a new wave of warmth, a weird spreading heat, a vague recall of physical sensations. It’s still all very far.

 The awareness starts becoming more present. Warmth still, and so much peace, and sometimes even _more_. More than peace, more than warmth. Because this strange melody surrounds Cas, a music deep, warm and sweet like honey. Notes and intonations of love and safety, and it makes Cas feel _emotions_. Emotions more real than just vague sensations; waves of strength, and love, and joy, waves of things that used to be unknown to him, but that are now all around, inside and out.

 Warmth. Peace. A need starts insinuating itself inside of Cas’ small world. The music around him comes and goes. That’s his first notice of _time_ , because he waits for the music to start again. He longs for it. And then when it does, everything is better. The warmth is warmer, the light is lighter. But other times the sound is faint, far away, and then things aren’t as good anymore.

 

 For the first time, Cas tries to intervene in his dream. Bring himself closer to the music. But trying to chase after the music is perilous. Other things starts to appear when Cas tries to follow the sound. The music is _good_ , he knows it, he must touch it, he must find it, he wants to hear it more clearly. The music calls for him. But the closer he gets, other things wait for him, like a veil between him and his love.

 Feelings, emotions, _memories_ , piercing through the warmth. It’s still there, the softness, the heat, it’s around Cas, but inside of him things are fighting to resurface. Pain. _So much pain_. And fear. Cold, hunger. _Death_... no. Cas retreats, runs, chases away the memories. He goes back to the warmth, safe and reassuring, and the careless floating. Paradise.

 But the music calls for him again. Cas wants to get closer. He needs to. In his bare consciousness, it’s hard to understand _why_ Cas needs so much to go to the music, but he knows it’s more important than anything else. More important than safety, or warmth, or paradise. The memories hit him again. Threaten to take over. Pain. Blood. _Ripping_ , screams. Cold, infinite cold. A tiny room smelling like urine, a moldy mattress covered in stains. Restless nights, violent nights. Hands on him. _Feelings_. Revolt. Cas’ mind jerks. _No!_

 His mind strikes back, struggles, screams silently. It’s so warm outside, and the voice is right there, but his insides are nothing but pain now, pain and hits and blows, it’s like his whole soul is covered in bruises, bruises insides and outside and it’s bleeding and he’s gonna die and he can’t even hear the voice anymore and _he can’t hear the voice he needs the voice FIGHT FOR THE VOICE_ -

 A void, an endless fall.

 He made it.

 It’s still numb, peaceful and warm around Cas. But it’s also dark. Darkish. Cas isn’t sure yet. He blinks. _Blinks_ \- that means eyelids, and eyes. Cas has eyes, eyes that see. Nothing much yet, but it seems to get a little better. Skin, too. Around the eyes. A forehead, and cheeks, and a nose. A face. Maybe a mouth? Yes, a mouth. It’s dry. It feels tiny, disproportionate. Tiny and dried up. Shrinked. _Lips_.

 Cas tries to pull them apart. It works a little. If a mouth, then probably a tongue, and a throat, and a neck. Yes. It’s heavy, stodgy. Swallowing? Dry. Very dry. Cas attempts an exploration, further, but the sensations are coming back very slowly. It’s all numb, but it’s still warm and soft around him. The painful memories are mostly gone too. So is the music. Where is the music?

 Cas’ eyes feel furred, and everything is blurry. There’s some light. Like in the very late afternoon. Twilight maybe. He’s in a big room, because the ceiling is so very high and the walls are far away. The only place that ever looked like this was the house of his childhood, the house of his first owners. Is Cas back there? Was it all a dream? Is he still five years old, just woken up from another nightmare, a very vivid nightmares with very vivid memories of the filth and the pain and the men? But that would mean it wasn't real, and _he_ wasn't real, that _he_ never existed-

 “ _Dean!_ ”

 His own voice hits Cas like a whip, hoarse and faint and broken but still loud like a scream in the silent room. In the panic that’s taken over him, Cas has the sudden realization that his masters are probably going to come in any second and give him a good correction for waking them up. But he doesn’t care, because it couldn’t have been a dream, not Dean, not him, not his love, no, _NO, not Dean!_

 “Dean!”

 “Cas?”

 A voice, just as broken and weak as his. A movement on his right. Something fighting through the numbness, a sensation. Cas’ hand. Squeezed in something burning. And Castiel's heart, his own heart, a pounding heart, an alive heart, jumps against his ribs when he hears the voice, the voice that sounds just like music, _his music_. Gathering all his strength, Cas tears away from the stillness and attempts a movement. His head. Turning his head. Turning his eyes toward…

 “Dean.”

 His own voice again. Pain in his throat, but it doesn’t matter, because _he’s_ here. A face. Dean's face. Shadowed by the setting sun behind his shoulders, but unmistakable. Tired, _thin_ , hollow, deep lines around the eyes and digging between the eyebrows, ghostly lips almost as dry as Castiel’s, skin white as a sheet under the scattered freckles. Dark, tortured, unrecognizable yet so familiar eyes. It’s _him_. His chimera, his music, his love.

 Cas wants to move, raise a hand, caress the face so close to his, reassure the man who’s looking at him like he’s looking at a corpse. _I’m here_ , he wants to say, _I’m here Dean, and you’re here too. We’re together now._ But his throat is too dry, and not a sound comes out of it.

 The squeeze to Cas’ hand turns to a sharp pain, sending a waking shock through his body. More senses awaken, and he realizes how tight Dean is gripping to his fingers.

 “Cas…” Dean gets closer, gaze anxiously detailing every inch of his face, before looking him in the eyes, into his open eyes, and something seems to light up inside of him. Hollow cheekbones turn red, life comes back, green irises lights up as Dean smiles faintly. “Cas, you awake?”

 Cas nods. It’s barely a movement, but it’s something. And he smiles. It doesn’t hurt anymore, not even his chapped lips that stretch over his teeth. Not the hand that’s about to explode under the pressure of Dean’s palms. Nothing hurts anymore, and warmth spreads back inside his body, from soft sheets he’s laying in, from the burning tears leaking from his eyes, from the heated lips Dean presses on his hands, on his cheeks, on his eyes, and finally on his mouth.

 He’s home. Dean came back for him, saved him, once again, and now Cas has come back to him, and he’s never, ever leaving again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was supposed to be longer, and also be the last. But It looks like there's going to be an epilogue, because I have too many headcanons for their future life together, and I need an entire chapter for them. 
> 
> (Can't believe I'm the one who used to complain about long endings... yet here I am...)
> 
> I will try to post the epilogue as soon as possible, there might be a small delay, maybe a couple of days.


	13. Le printemps c'est joli, pour se parler d'amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING/SPOILERS: Dean and Charlie have children together. They haven't exactly had sex in the way "full sexual intercourse". It was more a deposit... you know. I won't go into more details. Charlie is still a lesbian. Dean and Charlie are not romantically or sexually attracted to each other. The few times they've had to do the thing weren't traumatizing for them because they're really close friends and they trust each other, and also, Cas and Gilda were there to make things easier. 
> 
> They chose to have children to make the marriage look real but also because they wanted kids. Cas and Gilda were completely on board. They all love each other a lot, and want everyone to be happy and comfortable. :)

 Castiel transitions into his new life with a surprising ease. Dean is the one who makes it easy, of course. He's always there. And wherever he is, it feels like home.

 Cas realizes, as he slowly regains health and strength from Dean's constant and affectionate care, how deluded he was, how out of his mind, how unhealthy he had been living during those months Dean had been gone. How little he took care of himself, and how utterly convinced he was of dying in one way or another that night.

 In a weird way, Cas isn't entirely sure that he didn't. He tries not to think about it. Usually he's good at keeping that idea pushed away far in the corner of his mind, usually the feeling of the breeze on his skin, of the soft fabric of his clothes, of the grass - grass! always green, always vibrant and alive under his bare feet - of the different animals' fur they own under his palm, of Dean's lips on his body or the heat of Dean's skin against his as he goes to sleep every night, usually those are enough to remind Cas that he is, indeed, very alive. He has to be.

 It's just that he's so... happy. Constantly. And he's not used to that. And even when he gets used to it, he realizes, most people aren't this happy, and not like this, not every second of every day the way Cas feels. Those people he used to look at when he'd get out of his hole, those people who kissed each other at the market or the public baths, people smiling and living normal lives, the others, they still weren't... this happy.

 So happy Cas' heart feels too big for his chest, and there's not enough air for his lungs to breathe, even though the air in the countryside here is so fresh and healthy. So happy his eyes fill up with tears several times a day with, so happy and so grateful and feeling so many things he can't put words on them because they never existed for him, inside of him before now. Cas didn't even know these emotions were even a thing.

 Belonging, safety, knowing that this, this will last. _Forever_. Concepts, ideas, emotions, that he can barely grasp. Peacefulness. Pure, complete contentment. Love, so much love. For Dean, but also for Charlie, for their house, for things he owns, for his home, his land, the earth, the sky, the world. Himself. Every day, there is more to love, there is no end. And when the children come... It's like a whole new world inside of Cas, a whole new paradise he didn't know was there. A new infinity of happiness. It's almost too much, sometimes.

 And in a way, it scares him. Not enough to make him feel unsafe, or to make him feel anything really negative, but just enough to plant a seed of doubt when he wakes up in the wee hours of morning, for a few seconds before he can ground himself into reality. Just how perfect everything is all the time. It's his own, and he deserved it - God knows he deserved it - but it's just... a little too perfect. That he gets everything, everything he ever could’ve dreamed of, everything he was always holding on for.

 Cas didn't have faith in Gods, the fear of Hell, of disappointing or hurting a loved one. He didn't have any reason to live, any reason to go through everything. He doesn't even know why he did. He didn't want to, not like he does now, going to bed already looking forward to the next day. Cas remembers how in his old life he kept waking up, wondering why he hadn't died in his sleep. He kept hoping he would, of hunger, of blood loss, of a disease, of something, but he never did.

 But now Cas knows. This is why. He was waiting for this, for him. For Dean. For paradise.

 When he tells Dean, it makes him cry.

 Dean apologizes a lot in the beginning, apologizes about leaving, about being late, about telling Cas to wait there. But he also apologizes for how they met, about being one of them, a client, someone who bought him. About not getting him out earlier. Cas can't change the fact that Dean will always blame himself, carry more guilt than he deserves, more weight than he should. But Cas doesn't mind repeating, over and over, that Dean was never just a client. That his touch never felt like theirs. That he wouldn't change a single thing about the moments they had together, even when it wasn't perfect.

 Because it's true. Cas wouldn't change a thing. Not a thing about their story, even if it started on a dirty mattress in a stinky hole. Not a thing of the forty years he spends by Dean's side, on their big property under the sun. Because it's a _real_ life. A real life with good days and bad days, sunny days and rainy days, a real life where real normal things happen. That's what paradise is to Cas, that's what he always dreamed of, even before he dreamed of Dean. He dreamed of a life, a life made of more than just surviving, breathing and scraping by and getting fucked and beaten, eating old lentils and his skin constantly covered in dirt being afraid _all the time_... This. This is a life.

 And that's the other thing that makes Cas doubt, because he knows, he knows that if he is still alive... Then the day he does pass away, and does finally go to Heaven, this is what Heaven will be to him. A repetition of this. Of these forty years, every single day.

 Even the days Dean refuses to touch him, because he has nightmares he was the one hurting Cas, that night. Even the times the kids get sick and they don't sleep for weeks, and everyone in the house is on edge and scared and worried. Even the days Cas' favourite pets die. Those come around a few times over forty years, but they're always as painful, because Cas gets attached, and he loves with his whole heart. Dean sits with him by the graves, listens to him talk about them, brings them flowers and lets Cas cry on his shoulder without a complaint.

 There's not a day Castiel would change. Not a day he would erase. It's still his paradise.

 Because every day, even ten years, twenty years, thirty years down the line, every single day, Cas still wakes up in the same soft sheets, pressed against Dean's body, safely tucked in Dean's arms. He wakes up and the first thing he sees are Dean's eyes, fluttering open to meet his own, and he goes to bed every night and the last thing he feels is the press of Dean's lips against his forehead, against his cheeks, and finally against his mouth. Three hundred and sixty five days a year, for forty years. They may get old, but that doesn’t. They’ve waited so long for this.

 And then there are moments that are so unbelievably perfect, that they make Cas seriously doubt if they can even be real. Because he never imagined them even in his wildest fantasies.

 Like the wedding. It isn’t official in the eyes of the law, of course, but for them it's enough. Cas wakes up one day and finds Dean on his knees in front of the bed, with a little wooden box that contains two simple bands inside. Charlie performs the ceremony. Mary, wobbling a little on her three years old legs, walks down the aisle with the rings. They're all wearing flower crowns. The sky is so blue, but Dean says it still isn’t as blue as Castiel’s eyes. There is a lot of giggling, and of course they can’t wait until the right time to kiss, and Dean moves Charlie’s rings to his right hand so he can put Cas’ on his left, “the side of his heart.” From that day on, Dean never refers to Cas as anything else but his husband. And it may not mean anything in the eyes of the law or the Gods, but to Cas, it means everything.

 There’s the day Samandriel shows up. They had gone to the city looking for him several times, Dean even going back to Cas' old room to see if the cat might go back there as a habit, but without any success. Cas had given up on ever seeing his old friend again and it chagrined him greatly, because Samandriel had been Cas’ only friend, he had remained by his side through the worst of his life, even when Cas couldn’t feed him, even when his clients kicked him and mistreated him. Samandriel, more than anyone, deserved this paradise too. And somehow, he finds it. He’s thin and dirty, but he still looks feisty, and Cas cries for the whole day and even Dean sheds a tear when the cat purrs against his chest that night. It feels like a miracle.

 Cas will never forget the day Mary calls him “Papa”. She calls Charlie “mom”, Gilda "mama", Dean “dad”, and Dean insists that they get the kids to consider Cas as a parent too, but Castiel never thought it would actually happen. But it does. Mary calls him papa, and he's the only one who can sing her to sleep because she likes his voice the best, and for years they take naps together every afternoon. Years later, when Mary becomes a young mom herself, she visits with her son and they repeat the ritual, Cas old and greying, Dean finds them all three asleep in the garden, napping under the trees.

 That’s why Cas is scared sometimes, because he can’t know, there’s no way to know if he’s still in his life - because it’s obviously not his life. It’s a different life. And most of the time he can forget about it, focus on Dean’s reassurance, on Dean’s constant reminders of this reality, that coexists, somehow, with his past. Dean goes as far as bringing him back to his old neighbourhood, to his old room, helping him see with his own eyes that it’s all still there, in their world. The same world. And it hurts and that hurt helps, helps to remind Cas that it's still all there. He's not gone.

 He also has nightmares, sometimes. Cas figures, maybe if he was in Heaven, he wouldn’t. Not that he has that many - not nearly as much as he thought he would, even less than Dean has about the war. He feels like he has the normal amounts of nightmares, the amount normal people, who live normal lives, have.

 But he does have that one recurring dream. A dream that feeds on his doubts, that causes him to wake up in a sweat and grasp on Dean’s arms holding him close, to scramble up in the bed, sweating and panting as Dean murmurs reassurances against his temple and strokes his wet hair.

 Cas often dreams of Dean, that night. He sees it, over and over again, from above. He sees the darkness, the street, the rain pouring down. He sees the bodies splayed around them, bleeding out in the dirt. And he sees Dean, on his knees, holding Castiel's lifeless body in his arms. And then, then Cas watches Dean wander, all alone in their big house, and Cas knows it's him, but it doesn't even look like Dean. And the feeling of this man, of his dull, dark eyes and his translucent skin without one freckle to decorate it, makes Cas' soul ache like nothing ever has before.

 Sometimes Cas' nightmare will last for what feels like hours, hours of watching Dean lay in the grass by a grave surrounded with flowers that grow all year long, mourning the life they never had, the reality that never was, except up there, in Castiel’s paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ... or is it?
> 
> (Okay, I may be writing some one-shots taking place in this AU. They may or may not ever be posted.)


End file.
